


Meister Ain't My Designation

by GoblinCatKC



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Identity Porn, M/M, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-03 22:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 53,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5308655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoblinCatKC/pseuds/GoblinCatKC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long before the war, Prowl is intent on tracking down and arresting Meister, a joyriding thief causing mayhem in Praxis. Unfortunately Prowl must also deal with the distraction of an arranged marriage to a mech he's never met, Jazz of the tower Chamber Harmonic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Teasing Enforcers

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters.

The mech was laughing at him, Prowl knew it. He couldn't hear the laughter, couldn't see the grin, but the mech was a high speed racer built for versatile racing, easily leading the Enforcers from the surface streets—covered in grit and puddles of oil and acid rain—up to the ribbons of neon light high above the city, smooth, tilted for speed. The way the mech's tires turned just enough to splash up loose bits of pavement, the rolling headlights that danced back and forth on the highway instead of seeking out dangerous curves in the darkness...

Prowl, chief tactician for the Enforcers, rarely came out from behind his desk. His frame could keep up with most of the models on the force, but he was more suited for the quiet calculations of probability than leading a chase through the Praxis superhighways. At these altitudes, amongst the tower spires glowing against the starry backdrop, a spinout would send him crashing through the railing into the dark void, raging only that he hadn't caught the mech racing ahead of him.

Prowl's engine revved hard enough to smoke. The mech was laughing at them.

Prowl's sensitive doorpanels, even shut, shivered at the ice growing along his edges, and the winds blasted his hood and across his back strong enough to scrape his paint. Ahead of several other Enforcers vehicles, Prowl pushed his systems until they sparked, straining for every drop of power in his tanks. His wheels left painful tracks on turns hundreds of meters in the air, brushing the railings as he fought to close the distance between himself and the black car in front.

His radio crackled, scratchy as his components diverted power away. "Agent Prowl! Fall back! You're sparking! You're—"

A dozen car-lengths. Then ten. Then five. Prowl left the Enforcers lagging behind as he charged forward—the black car was almost in reach. He could finally see the blue highlights along the aft, the vanity lights in the wheelwells and the streaks of thin white lines accenting the mech's blurry silhouette.

"Halt!" he yelled, not sure if his voice could even carry at this speed. His speedometer had failed a kilometer back. "Halt, you reckless scrap of—"

The black car whipped a half circle, suddenly racing in reverse without any loss of speed, yielding no ground. Prowl felt the rush of panicky coolant through his systems. That maneuver beggared the laws of physics, of gravity. The mech was laughing because he was playing.

Prowl was about to crack apart from the stress and this mech thought they were dancing.

And then the black car exploded in a burst of sound and light that sent blinding pain across all of Prowl's sensors—overloaded his door panels, crashed his navigation, sent his wheels into a spin. Certain he'd die anyway, Prowl transformed back into root mode. Without wheels to carry him, without his streamlined frame to keep the air flowing, maybe he wouldn't crash through the railing—

Hands caught him. They slid backwards, pedes scraping the pavement. Steel screeched as Prowl bent, overheated, shooting sparks along the length of the road, but the arms around Prowl managed to cushion him from the worst of the slide—cold, a little smaller, rumbling in easy laughter.

Prowl managed to snap a stasis cuff around one wrist before he was dropped unceremoniously to the street.

The sensation of no longer moving was such a relief that Prowl took a nano to vent, amazed that he was still alive. Coughing, his doorwings twitching as they cut off their sensors in self-defense, Prowl pushed himself up on his elbows and spotted his quarry far ahead, a dark silhouette against the Praxian towers.

Bent from exertion but slowly standing straight, the black mech ran a hand along his helm, then turned and faced Prowl, his silver visor lighting his grin.

"Lotsa mechs chase me," he said, "but you...you're the first one to throw yourself at me...Prowl, was it?"

"Get...get back here," Prowl growled, gathering one pede under himself, trying to stand without shaking. "You're under—"

"Arrest?" The mech raised his hand, dangling the stasis cuff at Prowl. Without the other cuff connected, it couldn't deliver a full charge. "Kinda tingly. I'ma keep this as a souvenir, if you don't mind?"

"You arrogant—" Prowl managed to stand, tilted as one pede buckled against the other, his left arm limp and crackling at the shoulder. "You overcharged glitch—who are you—"

The mech laughed again, one hand on his hip, obviously recording everything. "Meister! Call me Meister."

"That's not a designation!" Prowl yelled in frustration, taking an abortive step.

Sirens and tires came closer, the rest of the Enforcers finally coming up behind Prowl. Meister turned, spotting the Enforcers coming from the other side of the road.

"You're surrounded!" Prowl said, flanked by Enforcers coming up out of altmode with guns already drawn. "Surrender!"

Smiling casually as if he were meeting old friends, Meister clapped his hands together and took a couple steps back, feeling the railing against his pedes. When his optics met Prowl's, the Enforcer understood what the mech meant to do. Venting in hard, Prowl raised his hand as if he could catch him.

"Don't—"

"Later, Prowler," Meister said, and let himself tumble backwards off the side.

Enforcers rushed by Prowl, all lining up along the side of the road. Someone came up beside him, taking his good arm and supporting his weight. Prowl didn't listen to Bluestreak's concerned chattering. All he heard was his mechs reporting back that they saw nothing—no falling mech, no explosion, no gliding wings.

Nothing but the wind bearing up one last delighted laugh.

~


	2. A Bonding Ceremony

Prowl knelt, listening with only half an audio to the temple bot's bonding ceremony. He could have devoted most of his processing to reviewing files, but it would be unseemly to miss his cues to speak his vows or stand lest he embarrass himself in front of the elites of the Chamber Harmonic and the elders of Prowl's lineage.

Bad enough that his frame still showed a few healing scuffs and dents from the crash, but at least his doorwings no longer drooped at an angle. All of the scorch marks had been buffed out and even his dents were barely visible in the light, but the mechs surrounding him seemed to be made entirely of judgmental optics—he held himself stiffly, refusing to look anywhere but at a spot on the temple bot's book.

The mech beside him had no such sense of shame. Jazz's engines rumbled in pointed displeasure, growling at the very edge of being disowned out of sheer propriety. Prowl wondered if he was even listening. Jazz's helm instead seemed to bob very slightly with the faint pulse in his audios.

When his creators told him that his arranged match was consumed by music, they were apparently trying to be polite.

And yet when the temple bot asked if there were any guests who knew any reasons why the bonding should not take place, Jazz looked up in perfect attention, clearly listening the whole time.

"Can I make a suggestion?" Jazz asked in all innocence.

"You little—" a bot hissed from the Chamber Harmonic. "I swear, I will deactivate you myself—"

"Conclude the ceremony," another Harmonic mech, Metronome, told the temple bot. "Before he embarrasses himself further."

"Can't blame a mech for trying," Jazz grumbled, falling back into grumbling music. "Buncha' stuck up, no notes, can't play no improv nohow..."

Prowl's sensors caught a soft pop and a flinch from his intended. Turning his helm as far as he dared, he caught the edge of Jazz's wince and realized that the other bot's creators had inflicted a powerful communications burst, a kind of backhanded smack, to silence him. Prowl's lips pursed as he looked straight again.

The temple bot flipped the main panel on the book, pulling out two interface cords. Prowl obediently tilted his helm, allowing the first cord into his main cortex slot. The bot moved to attach the second cord, but his hand missed as Jazz ducked and looked at his creators again, mouthing something that Prowl couldn't see.

Steel silence and the lack of any burst. Chamber Harmonic refused to see him at all. Jazz sank back down, shoulders hunched, helm bowed. The interface cord slid into his port and completed the connection, and the temple bot began the program to link the pair.

Prowl sorted the information flowing in with practiced care, designating this slot as Jazz's and Jazz's alone, then creating the directory to hold his intended's data feeds. The temple programs installed and facilitated his effort, and then automatically shunted Jazz's linkup to a secondary protocol function.

Prowl frowned at the protocol choice. That meant that anytime they connected, Prowl's processors would come first, would essentially dominate the smaller mech's functions. Having suffered crashes before, Prowl was sensitive to any programs dictating how fast or slow he could run, and this... He attempted to edit the temple-established protocols and found the new program locking him out.

A nanosecond later, Jazz's data stream was allowed in. Prowl almost moved to rip out the cord so Jazz didn't have to feel the temple's automatic subordination, or so that Prowl didn't have to feel the smaller bot try to tear himself out of the Enforcer's cortex.

Prowl was surprised to feel Jazz enter without protest and accept the protocols without a fight. As the temple program worked to align both of them, Prowl grew increasingly aware of a firewall drawing a line to quarantine part of Jazz's cortex. As he grew aware, so did the temple program, which began to tap at the firewall.

Beside him, Jazz shifted. Made a soft noise and tilted his helm as if he could shake the temple programming away. Then winced again as the program struck back, pushing at the quarantine. Prowl watched the program peel back some of its more polite layers, revealing monstrous viruses meant to batter down firewalls far stronger than Jazz's.

Jazz tensed as if he could physically shield himself, and Prowl realized that, as high performance as Jazz's specs were, he was not built for this kind of cortex control.

The first virus began unlocking the sectors that powered the firewall itself, finding easy lodgements to ease in its coding. Jazz gasped at how quickly it moved, feeling the firewall shudder, disconnect, give a final quiver and—

At last Prowl found the temple program's root file and gave it the command to end. As if the interface had completed as intended, the program retreated, uninstalled its initial software and retreated back into the temple bot's book.

Still connected, Prowl felt all of Jazz's confusion, his surprise at some semblance of privacy remaining to him. And then his relief flooding through him in a physical rush of a long vent and heat sink cycle.

The temple bot faltered for a moment—interface connections usually took longer than this—then continued as if everything were normal. Jazz refused to look at Prowl, but as they stood up, he let Prowl take his hand and followed him away from the altar.

~


	3. Jazz's Best Friend

Even the high ceilings of the House Harmonic's formal hall stifled Prowl's sensors, surrounded as he was by the upper echelons of his elders. Their judging optics fell on him and—as always—found him lacking, a disappointment even in this misfit match making. Could they tell he had not forced Jazz into a slave function? Perhaps their displeasure was more rooted in Jazz's absence at his side, and in Prowl's willingness to let the smaller bot continue to run wild.

He knew he'd guessed right when his creator Retentis seized the back of Prowl's neck and led him away from the corner he'd hidden in, leading him with a polite smile to the kitchen. Prowl braced himself, keeping his helm high as his creator shut the door. As soon as they were out of sight, Retentis wheeled back on him with a snarl.

"And how long do you plan to stand there like a fried cortex without your peripheral?" Retentis hissed. "Tell me you at least know where that little waste of a mainframe is?"

"He did not feel capable of attending the reception," Prowl said calmly. "The interface and link-up was more draining than he let on."

"Jazz fought it, you mean," Retentis said, nodding and staring at the door as if the party were visible. "I'll take this up with Metronome. They swore they'd get Jazz to behave long enough to avoid embarrassment. Chamber Harmonics is badly mistaken if they think we'll allow this kind of slight."

Prowl winced. "In their defense, Jazz seems to be quite high strung—"

"'High strung'?" Retentis snorted without humor. "If you weren't running around playing Enforcerer, I would never have allowed this union. We could've bargained up to Symphonic, maybe even Stradivus. But—" Retentis cut themself off with a a hard gesture. "Irrelevant. I can use this. They won't get half of what we promised, and we still get their clout."

"Is that wise?" Prowl said, his optics widening as his HUD filled with calculations of probability in neat rows. "We're just confectioners. They're the reigning—"

"Negative." Retentis stood straight, dismissing Prowl without a glance. "We are confectioners. You are an Enforcer. We already have security hired for this event. Go find your peripheral."

Brushing aside a bit of imaginary dust and grime, Retentis took a deep vent, hands clasped politely, and returned to the reception.

A full cycle passed. Another. Prowl pressed his hand to his face, squeezing his optics shut. When his hand fell again, his expression was blank again.

Jazz could take care of himself. Prowl needed his desk, his office, Bluestreak chattering in his audio. He escaped the main chambers through the caterer's entrance, careful not to jostle the rows of his tower's best wares. The high grade energon had been served cycles earlier, but an array of treats had yet to be paraded before the party. Trays of tar taffies, rust sticks drizzled with mercury, silica wafers spotted with sapphire flakes... Prowl scooped a handful into his subspace and headed for the door, a wave of relief washing over him as he grabbed the handle.

Mufled keens and shallow vents brought him to a halt.

"–can't hide here forever."

"Sure I can. Ain't no one come looking for me, huh?"

Prowl frowned, leaning to see around to see around the tall racks of trays. Jazz sat, helm bowed, leaning against a mech that Prowl recognized from the catering staff. Despite the unfashionable lack of a faceplate and an older model of vocal processor, Wheeljack served intoxicants like isopropyl and synthoils professionally enough that they overlooked the occasional kitchen explosion from his experimental drinks.

"Do you want them to come looking?" Wheeljack nudged Jazz, jostling the smaller bot leaning against him. "Here, eat another silicate."

"Mm." Jazz bit the wafer from the mech's hand and tossed it back, crunching it into tiny pieces to savor before swallowing. He rubbed his optics, resetting them over and over. "S'funny, y'know?"

"What is?"

"When they didn't zap me again." Jazz scooped up another wafer and licked off the sapphires first, staring at the empty silicate for several kliks. "It was like they didn't have to care what I did no more. Like I was someone else's problem now."

"Jazz..." The other mech's vocals and audios flashed in concern. "You haven't told anyone else?"

"'Course not!" Jazz said. "I thought for sure I wasn't getting out of that spot. Don't even know why Prowl let me go, really."

The other mech murmured faint agreement, lost in thought.

In the lull that followed, Prowl watched them for a moment. Jazz clearly knew Wheeljack better than Prowl did, but with a little thought, he felt that it made sense. Jazz, infamous defect of the House Harmonics, still performed with the elite at most of the senatorial and noble functions, but rarely did he rub wings with the glittering attendees. Most of his notoriety came from the bot's habit of skimming from the kitchens, breaking the spark of the cleaning mechs with his numerous rendezvous and drunkenly racing streetmechs on his way back to his House's towers. Of course Jazz would prefer the bartender over his own family.

More assured of himself, Prowl cleared his filter and came out from behind the rack. Both Jazz and the older mech startled upright. When they saw who it was, and more specifically that it was not one of the elders, they both vented and relaxed.

"Guess it's true," Wheeljack said, flashing his audios disapprovingly. "Enforcerer's really do like to eavesdrop."

"A habit of work," Prowl said, nodding politely only at Jazz. "I didn't slave your protocols to mine because you clearly didn't want it."

When Jazz didn't answer, Prowl glanced aside at the trays of waiting confections, running a finger along the edge as if looking for dust. "I dislike seeing mechs treated poorly."

Reassured a little Prowl's mild tone, Jazz licked his lips. "That why you're an Enforcer 'stead of a proper candy merchant?"

Prowl stiffened, his low wings snapping straight.

Jazz reached back and grabbed Wheeljack's hand. His helm lowered though he did not apologize, and his optics never dipped, watching Prowl for a swinging hand or threat.

With some effort, Prowl dropped his wings again.

"I...yes." Prowl coughed again. "My creators were pleased with my cortex for numbers, but..." He glanced over his shoulder at the door. Elders could enter rooms so silently. "I was not as flexible with the numbers as they would have liked."

"You wouldn't cook the books," Wheeljack nodded, shrugging at Prowl's dark look. "Hey, mechs talk. You think it was an accident us suppliers preferred dealing with you? You're kinda missed on your tower's loading docks, y'know."

Jazz glanced from Prowl to Wheeljack, from Wheeljack to Prowl. A slow smile graced his lips, but the canny glint to his optics set the Enforcer on edge.

"So he ain't all that bad?" Jazz murmured, now taking the time to look his new mate up and down. "Huh. I didn't think I'd get anything but the short end of this deal, but now maybe this ain't the end of me after all."

"Told ya so, runt." Wheeljack nudged Jazz again, then turned back to Prowl. "So where are you running off to? I haven't even mixed the mineral oils and quicksilver yet."

"I never liked formal functions," Prowl said. "And I have work I need to finish before I recharge. I only came back here because I thought I heard Jazz in distress."

Now Jazz coughed and forced a smile, standing straighter. "Ain't feelin' so bad now. And work? That sounds a hell of a lot more fun than back inside. Where we off to?"

Prowl blinked. He had not considered it before, loathe to think about this day before, but now he was faced with the consequences of the arranged marriage. Saddled with a glorified peripheral mech, he suddenly wondered where to put Jazz. Prowl kept an apartment only for infrequent recharges, hardly suitable even for a misfit of the Chamber Harmonic. His elders must have considered it, but he'd rather peel his armor than go back and ask. His electronic messages would likely hold any information his elders had sent him, but he had no desire to look at them right now.

"Enforcer station nineteen," he said, then tried to calm Jazz's revving engines. "I'll only take a cycle or so, but it'll be boring. There's nothing to see there."

"No prob!" Jazz said, giving Wheeljack a wave and heading past Prowl, holding the door for him. "I make friends easy. You do your thing and I'll keep busy somehow."

~


	4. A Song for a Few Familiar Faces

"I've never gone downtown this way," Jazz said, rolling first on Prowl's right side, then speeding ahead to drift to Prowl's left. "It looks so different during first shift."

Prowl bristled as Jazz drove circles around him. "Pick a lane and stick with it."

"No one else driving 'round us," Jazz said, settling beside him. "Think you scared 'em all away. Not many bots comfy with an Enforcer on their aft, y'know."

Prowl knew. It was the reason most Enforcers made it to shift early. "And you are?"

"Ha!" Jazz spotted a pothole coming up, transformed into root mode, did a handflip over the pothole and landed neatly back on his wheels. Dust dotted his laugh. "Enforcers don't bug me."

"Stay in alt mode!" Prowl snapped, his spark skipping a beat. "Do you know how dangerous—root mode is illegal on the road!"

"I don't know," Jazz said, his smirk invisible but coloring his voice. "I s'pose even you would go root mode if you had a good enough reason?"

"A pot hole isn't a good enough reason," Prowl said as he came to the curb, transforming onto the sidewalk. "Another stunt and you'll be spending next shift in stasis cuffs."

"How about if I just ask real nice?" Jazz said. His grin softened as he looked over the Enforcer station. "Huh. Not what I was expecting. So this is what a clean cop station looks like."

"'Clean'?" Prowl asked.

The station, originally a blue crystal facade over steel, had grown so many cracks that it seemed like the coating of grime was all that held it together. Titanium shielding had been retrofitted into the windows to protect the mechs inside from explosions or snipers. The sidewalk ended in a puddle of acid rain slowly eating itself a new channel into the gutter, and the glyphs forming the Enforcers sign had once been crystals, now etched away by rain and leaving weeping marks in the steel.

"We have to clear it of graffiti and filth every week," Prowl said.

"'Zactly." Jazz smiled over his shoulder. "Graffiti. Busted walls. No credits to clean it up right. Any joint ever picked me up, they got paid pretty good to let me out before the shift was even done."

Prowl frowned. "After processing and filing the arrest?"

"See, now that's why I like you," Jazz said. "You know better, but you still asked."

With a quiet huff, Prowl put his hand on the door access panel, unlocking it and stepping through. Inside, the standing guards nodded at him and let him pass by with Jazz in his tracks.

"My office is back in the corner," Prowl said. "Civilians are not allowed inside so you may wait in the lobby. Stay out of trouble."

Hands up, Jazz gave him innocent optics. "Trouble ain't on the table, boss. I'll be good."

Prowl furrowed his eyeridge, not sure what was going on in Jazz's cortex, then saw him comfortably settled on the bench outside his office. He left his door open but was soon so lost in the datapads on his desk that the sounds of the Enforcer station faded to background noise.

Jazz sat still for all of a klik.

Enforcers looked at him curiously as they walked by, raising ridges when they saw whose office he sat outside. He met their looks with a smile, letting his attention drift around the room. Sterile like all offices, the lights were pale fluorescent, flickering unsteadily, and the handful of mechs who had their desks in the main room were just as pale and worn.

"Dammit!"

Jazz looked to his right. By a side table, a femme held an empty pot over a heat stove, and she tipped it so that the last few drops of something fell into her cup.

"When I find out who's leaving this thing empty," she growled at the rest of the office, all of whom ducked their heads, "I'm ripping wings off."

No one replied. She revved her engines in warning as she ripped open a packet of instant tar, dumping it in the pot. She was just adding oil when someone in another office called out her designation, and she huffed again and left the pot behind.

Curious, Jazz went over to the pot and read the instructions on the back of the tar packet. Adding the amount of oil, he set it on the heat stove and turned the dial.

"Excuse me but are you allowed to be here?"

Jazz would have been put on guard—he'd dealt with officious bots before—but this bot looked a vorn too young to be here himself. Red chevrons hadn't grown in completely, and his clasped hands betrayed just how nervous he was.

"Because I don't think civilians are allowed to put on tar," the red and grey mech said, glancing at Prowl's office window, "and I don't think you're an Enforcer because I've never seen you here and while I'm guessing you're just being nice, Officer Prowl probably won't think so and he gets mad."

"Oh, I believe you," Jazz said, swirling the tar on the stove. It didn't take more than a couple seconds to heat up and break down into liquid, and he set the burner a little higher to make the tar sludgier. "My master unit don't strike me as the happy go lucky type."

"'Master unit'?" the mech echoed with widening optics. "Then you're Prowl's sla—um, peripheral unit?"

"Officiated today," Jazz said, and the smile on his face would have fooled anyone. "Jazz of the Chamber Harmonic at your service."

"Oh wow, I've heard of you! I've seen you in the news feeds and—oh! I'm Bluestreak," the mech said, holding out his hand. "I work with Prowl. I just didn't want you getting yelled at 'cause he's scary when he yells, and okay he really doesn't yell but it still stings all the same."

"The kind of quiet disappointment type, is he?" Jazz asked, returning the handshake. He poured two cups of tar and handed one to Bluestreak, sipping over the rim of his own. "What kinda crimes he go after?"

"Prowl says the ones that no one else wants," Bluestreak said, taking a sip. He looked at his cup in surprise. "Hey, this is good. Better than usual. What'd you do to it?"

"Just something my buddy Wheeljack showed me once," Jazz said. "Hit the burner to get rid of some of that oil. Makes it easier on your intake, too. I just hope that femme don't take offense to it."

"It's not Airazor's fault," Bluestreak said. "We got a couple mech deactivations dropped on our desks from the other precincts, and then there's this joyrider we've been trying to catch for cycles."

"'Joyrider'?" Jazz said, his mouth turning up at the corners. "Doesn't sound too bad."

"It's awful," Bluestreak said, leaning forward for emphasis. "Prowl almost broke himself apart going after him—we all had tire burn and wrenched axles, but Prowl came out the worst. He isn't even supposed to be on shift for a couple more decacycles. Ratchet'll strip his paint if he knows Prowl was out of the berth at all."

"Huh. I take it temple ceremonies are out of the question, too?"

"What's this about 'temple ceremonies'?" Coming out of a side office, Airazor vented and plopped her datapad on the table. "Who's your friend, Blue'?"

Before Bluestreak could answer, Jazz tipped his helm courteously with a half bow.

"Name's Jazz, ma'am," he answered."Prowl's newly minted peripheral."

"Prowl has a peripheral?" she scoffed, smiling back. "My sympathies. I didn't think Primus was that cruel."

"Officer Prowl's not that bad," Bluestreak said swiftly. "And Jazz is from the Chamber Harmonics! He's like nobility."

Airazor gave the young Enforcer an indulgent look and reached for the pot of tar, smiling when saw it was full.

"Oh, good. I was not in the mood to wait..." Struck at how slow it poured, she gave the cup a sniff before tasting it. "Ooh. Now that's a good cup. Blue', how'd you get it that sludgy?"

"I didn't," Bluestreak said. "I always burn it. Jazz did."

Now she cocked an eyeridge at him. "Chamber Harmonics but you know how to make tar? I ain't buying it."

"At least believe the tar," Jazz said. "It took me a vorn to learn how to make it proper."

"Any mech that can work a pot is not noble," she said. "Everybot knows that."

"No, he's real, and he's good!" Bluestreak said, bouncing on his heels. "I've heard him by himself before."

Both Jazz and Airazor turned their helms to him.

"Wait," Jazz started. "You sure you heard me?"

"Yeah," he said, "it was at the Rotunda Profundis, 'cause Prowl had me tag along for security and I got to sneak treats and after the music started and Jazz was up there—you were with the group on stage with the chrys-guitars."

"Yeah," Jazz nodded slowly, drawing a blank as to the performance. "That sounds 'bout right. But I don't solo when it's a big performance. When'd you hear me—?"

"In the kitchen," Bluestreak nodded with such confidence that Jazz couldn't disbelieve him. "Well, it wasn't quite in the kitchen—I was by the bar, too, and you were there and...and...um..."

"Well, that explains why I don't remember it," Jazz said, laughing off the awkward pause of Bluestreak's blush. "I'm told I do my best work when I'm black out energized."

"When no one heard you," Airazor said with a smile reserved for interrogations. "Convenient."

"No, I heard him," Bluestreak insisted. "Something like...'your signal's calling me back, ain't got...ain't got..."

"Ain't got a direction I'm headed to," Jazz filled in for him, the melody filling his words unbidden. "Your signal's calling me back home. And I know I'll never find my rest again. Your signal's calling me back home."

He vented for a klik. How had he been so far gone that he'd started singing that song? Some things weren't meant to be shared. And if his creators knew—to devalue the Harmonics name with impromptu drunken solos...

Well, no wonder they'd slaved him off.

"That was it," Bluestreak said, not noticing his hesitation. "That's why I didn't know it was you at first. That song sounded different. It didn't sound anything like normal music."

Masking her expression with her cup, Airazor took a long drink before replying.

"No, it doesn't." She set her empty cup down and faced him, the sarcasm drained from her face. "Y'know, I used to work security before I got the transfer here."

"'Zat right?" Jazz inclined his helm.

"I worked a lot of concerts," she said. "And all of them sounded the same. Orchestras. Or dance stuff. Even the sad ones, the songs with words? They all sort of sounded...off."

"Flat. Like a soloist," Jazz said, "whose processor's been too processed."

She nodded, gave Bluestreak a look, and then glanced up and realized the whole office had gone quiet. Some of them mechs simply sat at their desks, their hands idle, but a few were slumped back in their seats, watching curiously. In the wide open space of the Enforcer's lobby, sound traveled. And Jazz's tune had been simple and the words short, but what little was there had caught every mech's audios.

So maybe he was Chamber Harmonics after all.

"Sing it, will you?" she asked. "I think I'd like to hear it."

~


	5. A Jazzy Solo

In Prowl's office, a datapad sailed through the air and landed on his desk, followed by a "Whoo! Ptang!" It slid to a stop against his elbow, and Prowl rubbed at the pounding ache behind his optics before reaching for the slim screen. He didn't have to know who it belonged to. He'd long since given up berating Warpath for behavior that could only have been caused by cortex damage.

Prowl did notice, however, the lull in the engine rumbles, the way that there were no pedes clomping from one end of the precinct to the other. Airazor was not threatening the staff, Bluestreak had stopped talking and he didn't hear any of his minibots arguing back and forth across the lobby.

Long ago, Prowl had learned to take advantage of whatever temporary pauses in the Enforcer chaos that Primus saw fit to send him and so didn't question the sudden calm. He downloaded the cache of his most recent messages and case reports. Ratchet would rage about him working, but the medical bot's backlog of casualties kept him so overloaded that Prowl would escape with only a short lecture. With his work safely stored, he applied quick tags to everything—

Then stopped. His creator had left him a message. Prowl stared at the address for several kliks, pressing his lips together. Then clicked.

—Prowl. Your absence, though not permitted, was not unexpected. Do not allow your slave unit any autonomy. Your controlling influence over him is one of the key points of this union. Your new address is as follows. Do not argue. Chamber Harmonics was adamant that their defect of a bot be housed in a style befitting their station. Retentis out.—

His hand hovered on the keys. New address? The number and level that flashed across his HUD were only vaguely familiar to him, outside of his precinct, and he searched the Enforcer database, watching the blinking cursor creep farther and farther across Praxis.

When the address lit up, a blue square flashed on the edge of the tower district. Prowl's doorwings dropped. The square lay on the outer rim of his creator's properties.

His vent filter tightened his intake to nearly nothing. He leaned back in his chair, turning his helm away as if he'd been struck. His filtration system sounded like glass had slipped through his intake, grinding between tight gears. He gripped the edge of the desk, optics shut, and forced himself to vent slowly and deep. A breem passed. Then another.

Pressure grew in his helm. In the haze of pain, Prowl recalled sitting in Ratchet's office as the medibot told him not to stress himself further or else risk various system failures. "No work, no stress, not even tar for at least a week." Prowl pressed the heel of his palm against his chevron and groaned as a little of the pressure eased.

Tar. Ratchet wasn't here to yell and Prowl needed tar.

Smacking his console closed with the back of his hand, Prowl stood and left the office, heading straight for the empty tar station. He closed his optics and vented out. Thank Primus there were no other mechs. Thank Primus there was tar in the pot. Thank Primus—it warmed his hands and when the sludge hit his taste receptors, he groaned and sagged against the countertop. Good tar was so rare in this office, and it was just hot enough to ooze along his throat and heat his main cables, soothing the kinks and twists.

As he leaned there, head resting against the wall, a voice tapped at his audios. Faint, growing to a soft song, the melody held him enrapt until Prowl heard the scrape of a pede on the floor. He turned his helm, optics slitted.

Well, there are all the mechs, he thought. No wonder the tar counter was free.

The mechs weren't all standing—some of them were still seated at their desks—but everyone was ignoring their work, staring instead at the small crowd gathered around Jazz.

And Jazz was singing.

Surrounded by bots, revealed in white and black glimpses between Enforcers, Jazz leaned on the edge of one desk, resting an arm on his pedejoint. His visor pointed at the floor, as if he didn't need or want to see his audience, holding them under the same sway that Prowl stood caught in.

Prowl lifted his wings to improve his acoustics reception. New data was required. No mech performed this way. Soloists had entire choirs to support their vocalizations. Orchestras filled the stages, rows of mechs to play the same instrument in unison. Not this—one mech, one voice, no instrument.

"—across the long black roads," Jazz sang. "And I don't always know where I am."

Not like any soloist, either. Prowl had done his share of security details, and soloists all sang smooth, their voices like a single note that pitched up or down in steady perfection. Jazz's voice held an obvious accent and a gruff edge, as if he'd sung so often that he'd run his vocalizer ragged and repaired too often.

And yet...

"Trying to get lost," Jazz sang, taking a swift vent so the sound would not disturb his vocalizer. "but I know where you are 'cause your signal's calling me home."

The last note lingered, drew out, and then drowned in the silence. Jazz vented deep, straightening upright, and lifted his head sharply as the bots around him began to clap. He smiled slowly and his shoulders dropped in relief.

"Glad I asked," Airazor said, clapping with the rest. "How come concerts aren't more like that, huh?"

At the murmured echoes and nods of agreement that followed her question, Jazz shrugged and leaned back, visibly soaking up their praise. His doorwings lifted high, and from across the room, Prowl guessed that Jazz normally kept them low out of habit. Or when he was surrounded by his creators.

"Dinged if I know," Jazz said as he waved the question off with a smile. "I don't deal with all'a that sort of stuff. I just sit where they tell me and play what they put in front of me."

Most of the Enforcers laughed in agreement—every mech on the force knew about following orders that only made sense to the officers above them—but Bluestreak scritched his helm with a frown. The youngest on the squad, he knew in his spark that Prowl and the officers had reasons for what they were doing, reasons that Prowl always explained.

"But how come?" Bluestreak asked. "That sounded so good. Don't you wanna sing like that all the time?"

Jazz froze. "I..."

Prowl stood up straight and walked through the small crowd. He came to stand in front of Jazz, putting his hand on the smaller mech's shoulder.

"Showtime's over," Prowl said. "Everyone, back to work."

~


	6. A Place to Put Black Cybersheep

"Showtime's over," Prowl said. "Everyone, back to work."

Amidst the muttered grumbles and scraped pedes as the others returned to their desks, Prowl loomed over Jazz a moment longer, then bent slightly toward him. It occurred to him that he could have used their internal communications. An interface like theirs established a permanent communique, but Prowl found that he could catch a faint vibration from Jazz's systems if he was willing to risk his more sensitive circuits and lean closer.

"It's time to leave." Prowl put his hand on Jazz's shoulder. "Come with me."

"Sure thing, boss bot," Jazz said, coming off the desk. He looked at the hand on his shoulder, then back up at Prowl. "Where we off to?"

Prowl tried to answer, and the word stuck in his vocalizer. Hissed static came, followed by a cough of his filters and then a vent of resignation.

"Retentis set aside one of my family's towers for our use."

His eyeridges furrowing, Jazz started to ask, then thought better of it. Maybe this Retentis was the same kind of bundle of joy as his own creator, Metronome. Following at Prowl's side, he waved at Bluestreak and Airazor and transformed onto the road with him, pacing him in the side lane. Occasionally his engines revved and made him jump ahead, but Jazz forced himself to slow down enough that his front wheel always matched Prowl's rear.

"The speed limits exist for a reason," Prowl said over his hub. "Obey them."

"Sorry," Jazz said with enough sarcasm to tell Prowl that he wasn't. "This frame just wasn't built to mosey on down the road, you know what I'm saying?"

"Any faster," Prowl said, "and any error in judgment could send you crashing through the railing and off into space. Unless those wings of yours can actually fly—"

"I give, I give," Jazz chuckled, but his laugh ended in a sigh. "No cutting loose and peeling rubber."

Prowl didn't respond. Jazz followed him off the main highway to an on-ramp that curved away over the city toward tall spires in the distance. Remembering this trip from a couple shifts ago, Jazz slowed slightly and merged behind Prowl.

"Hey," he said, trying to sound conversational. "Ain't this the road where you guys chased that joyrider?"

Again Prowl didn't respond, but he increased speed so that the wind howling over their frames made it impossible to talk. Jazz didn't push, but he did enjoy the lift to his undercarriage as they raced. The area below them was familiar, the sprawling towers of the noble district that dominated Praxus. Around the edges, towers were modest, hardly twenty stories, but the grander Chambers could house whole guilds in spires reaching hundreds of floors.

To Jazz's relief, they did not continue toward the center of the noble district. Instead Prowl took them down a slender lane leading back onto the surface roads, taking them past a handful of small towers with large estates covered in crystal. Still at the very edge of the tower district, they came around a corner and then down a longer lane until finally coming to rest in front of a gate taller than both of them.

"Is this it?" Jazz asked, driving around Prowl for a better look.

The gate, made of silver crystal in ornate swirls, had once glimmered with inner light. Now burned out, it reflected the city's glow and made it easy to see the tiny tower inside. Surrounded by creeping growths of darkly purple crystal, the tower itself seemed carved entirely of ebony ore and held only two floors. Any windows were impossible to pick out.

"Maybe it's empty," Jazz murmured. Used to servants buzzing around the halls, he'd never encountered a deserted tower before. "Look at those grounds. The crystal's kinda broken up in spots. You think maybe there's ghosts?"

"Retentis may not like me," Prowl said, and he rolled slowly forward as he transmitted code on a set frequency. "But he would not go so far as to put me in a haunted tower. If the access code works then—ah!"

The gate swung open. Both winced at the harsh screech of rusty steel as a few motes of crystal flaked off. Jazz transformed back into rootmode, crushing crystal shards under his pedes.

"Listen to that, would ya?" he said. "I wouldn't trust my tires on those."

"A wise decision," Prowl said, standing beside him.

With the clang of the gate shutting behind them, they walked the short driveway and looked up at the tower again. The main tower of House Gourmant loomed only a few estates away, mountainously tall. Prowl's mouth twisted into something like a grimace, and he turned to escape the sight that his creator no doubt intended as a reminder. All those cycles of running from his family, and here he was at their doorstep once more.

The tower doors opened with the thunk of heavy stone echoing through the main chamber and up the grand stairway. They followed its sound, looking over the dusty floor and tables, the thin strands of crystalline webs in the corners, the broken railing on the stairs and the threadworn banners of woven plastics waving in the sudden wind.

"Huh." Jazz snorted. "I get it."

"What?" Prowl said, snapped out of his wide opticked shock.

"I don't know what you did to piss 'em off," Jazz said, and in the ray of light from the door, he went to sit on the bottom steps. "I mean, I know what I did, but it looks like you're in the same boat as me."

"What are you talking about?"

Prowl found the light switch and turned it on, filling the chamber with light from a chandelier and revealing two smaller rooms on either side. It also revealed the mess of broken chairs, empty energon cubes and a cracked table under a broken lamp. He vented in growing frustration.

"This place," Jazz said, sweeping his arm around. "Look at it. This ain't where you put your prized heirs. This ain't even where you put family you're upset with. This is where you stick someone you gotta remind they ain't in charge."

Prowl's mouth pressed into a line, but he couldn't deny it. Jazz made perfect sense, and Prowl was tempted to simply leave, take Jazz back to his apartment and pretend this tower did not exist.

"So what'd you do?" Jazz asked. Despite the ramshackle tower, his grin grew brightly as if he didn't see where he was, and he patted the stair beside him. "One black cybersheep to another?"

"I..."

Prowl glanced around the chamber again, overwhelmed for the moment with the sheer calculations of what the tower required to become livable again. His healing joints and struts ached at the thought of it, and with a long vent, he surrendered and sat beside Jazz.

"I refused to work in the guild," he said, staring at the floor. "House Gourmant manages most of the energon confections for this region of Cybertron, and they secretly..."

His voice trailed off. These were House secrets, and his loyalty warred with his sense of justice.

"I should not be telling you this."

Beside him, Jazz chuckled and jostled him.

"'Cause they've been taking such good care of you," Jazz said. "I'm your peripheral. If you can't trust me, who can you trust?"

"...true." Prowl shrugged. "Not that it matters, really. I can't stop them. The House is corrupt. The orders of ingredients are routinely altered to seem smaller or larger so contraband can be smuggled in or out. And when you control a mech's intake, you can easily...I was never able to find evidence of it, but—" He grit his denta, snarling at his own failure. "I am certain there were hired hit jobs—my calculations were to the last decimal, the very last decimal."

Jazz leaned back on the stairs, pedes stretched out as he stared at the dusty chandelier. Accusations of murder and smuggling washed off of him. All the Houses in Praxus had their secrets, and Chamber Harmonics was no different. Musicians, unless they were well known soloists, usually passed by undetected in the houses of nobles and senators, making friends with the staff and giving sweet optics to the younger mechs. A secret whispered in the berth traveled back to the main Chamber itself.

"Gotta admit," Jazz said, laughing. "I can't see you pouring and shaping steel treats."

"I didn't," Prowl said, sitting straight. "For a long time, I managed their finances. Until I started to see patterns. I think...they wanted me to notice so as to judge my reaction."

"And...?"

"It did not end well." Prowl shrugged as if it couldn't be helped, but Jazz noticed the sudden drop of his wings. "A society of broken laws is highly inefficient. I am created to calculate maximum efficiencies. I could not have reacted any other way."

Jazz looked at him. "That when you joined the Enforcers?"

Prowl nodded. "For all the good it's done. I knew I could not run away from them, not really but..."

"But here we are," Jazz said. "So why'd you say you can't stop 'em? You actually tried?"

The surprised in his voice, the disdainful tilt of his helm, the imagined roll of his optics behind that visor—Prowl read Jazz's frame language and felt his faceplate heat uncomfortably. He sat straight, facing Jazz squarely, glaring.

"I took all my evidence—the House books, the ledgers, the time stamped receipts that proved—proved that Retentis and the others are to blame or are implicated in point thirteen percent of this city's criminal enterprise."

Jazz's smile twitched but didn't fade. "I'm surprised you're still alive."

In less than a nano, Prowl's cortex spun out calculations. Jazz's comment could have been a statement of comfort—twelve percent. It could have been sincere surprise—twenty percent. But that Jazz didn't change his posture, that he smiled, inflected on the word 'alive', with the modifier for how Jazz certainly wasn't surprised by any of this, left Prowl at seventy eight percent that Jazz thought the whole affair was funny, and that Prowl himself was a fool. It only made the memory of his evidence destroyed, melted to slag in front of him by his commanding officer, sting all the worse.

"At least I tried to stop it," Prowl snapped, "instead of overenergizing it away."

"Oh," Jazz said, startled back in surprise, then shaking his head. "Oh, that's one nasty temper you got there, boss mech."

With a graceful rise to his pedes, Jazz stood and used the stair railing to turn, heading up to the second story. Prowl watched him go, even more annoyed that Jazz didn't argue.

"But it's a good suggestion," Jazz said over his shoulder. "I'm sure we ain't got no servants, but I don't think our creators hate us enough to leave us without energon. I'ma find it and get started on the evening's energon haze. You have fun doing whatever is you do when you're alone."

Prowl stood and headed to the far room, determined not to have to see Jazz for the rest of the shift. He had enough variables in his cortex that needed attention and a whole tower to catalog and clean. A sarcastic, useless, drunken peripheral was not what he needed. He spent the rest of the shift searching for cables from the side rooms to the main chamber, struggling to reconnect the electricity, lights and control panels. He did not see Jazz for the rest of the cycle.

~


	7. Meister Joyrides Again

Praxus at night—its glow washed out all the stars, leaving a sparkling scarlet nebula sprawled across the sky and a gold gas giant glimmering in the distance. From the highway soaring past the noble tower district into the heart of the city, the streetlights below looked like pinpoints as mechs streamed by, creating a river of red and white with their taillights.

Jazz stood on the highway's shoulder, staring out at the city that stretched as far as the horizon. Beneath him, the drop to the ground plummeted hundreds of meters with a dozen roads radiating out in all directions. Praxus contained the largest population of vehicle mechs, so like Vos characterized by its steel perches for jets, Praxus had been created as Cybertron's ultimate superhighway, and if they couldn't soar like jets, then at least they could fly on the pavement.

Jazz's hand clenched on the railing. On these highways, a speed limit was a sin.

Synapses in his cortex sparked to life. His frame shimmered once, and then his white coloring darkened to a glossy black. His blue visor turned silver. And his doorwings rose to their full height, sensor panels receiving the chill, the heady vibration of the steel under his pedes. If he listened closely, he discerned the rhythm of the mechs in motion, the beat of the wind as it burst over him. Improvised, without rhyme or reason, the echoes of the city carried up as if Praxus herself was venting.

He would add one more musical note to that song.

Transforming down into altmode, he revved his engines hard and slipped into traffic. For awhile he matched everyone else's pace, easing casually to the far left lane. Normally he had a route—across to the Cybertron Western Straightaway that cut through Praxus, gathering speed so he could streak down an off-ramp onto a loop back into the city, swooping along an underpass and then coming around for another shot. It was easy, full of curves and enough straight runs that he could pick up enough speed so that for an instant he imagined that his tires might leave the pavement.

But this time Prowl was not here to chase him. Though he'd been chased only once by his master, after the thrill of Prowl crashing against him, the other Enforcers were a poor second. None of the other local Enforcers had the high performance frame of a Tower mech, and of the few Enforcers in the other districts who did, none of them were willing to push as hard just to catch a simple joyrider. Especially a joyrider who got away with flouting their authority every time.

So a quick spin around the usual route, though tempting, would do nothing more than blow off a little steam. And Jazz wanted more than that.

He'd been forced into an arranged bond as a slaved peripheral unit in a bid to keep him contained. Jazz's creator needed a hobby, something to keep Metronome occupied and focused on something beside making him miserable.

Despite being surrounded by enormous senate and temple towers, the Rotunda Profundis still managed to look grand, a half-oval building covered with opaque silicates that glowed white during concerts. Dwarfed by the neighboring buildings, it still loomed over Jazz as he rolled closer. A few security drones stood at the entrance, their optics glowing and following the movements of anyone who came too near.

Only a few mechs knew that these drones were left locked in stasis with their recording functions disabled, purely for looks, to save on credits.

Jazz walked up to the front door, holding his hand over the keypad. The door itself was silica but of a thicker composite built to withstand a beating. He paused, considering what he was about to do.

His sonic array lifted. Instead of the powerful burst he'd hit Prowl with, a thin wave of sound grew and intensified. The door shuddered, vibrated on its hinges, cracked down the center. One good kick broke it apart and Jazz stepped in.

There was no audible alarm, but Jazz knew he had half a cycle before the Chamber's private security slogged off their lazy afts and ran down here, let alone any Enforcers in the area. He transformed into altmode and drove past the wide lobby and down into the sloped arena seating, careful not to leave marks on the silicate floor. The whole structure was quite pretty and harming it wasn't what he had in mind.

Driving down the aisle took a few good kliks. Concerts were meant for entertaining thousands of mechs, after all. When he finally reached the stage, he transformed again and headed straight to the main podium. The slab of crystal was easily three times his size, built to accommodate conductors who were sometimes visiting jets from neighboring cities, but the swirls and flourishes carved into the side gave Jazz enough of a handhold to climb up.

As he cleared the top, he saw it—the ancient sheet music printed, actually printed on clear thin polymer. Holding his vents, he lightly eased his fingertip under the edges of the sheet and rolled it up, bringing it up and off the podium at the same time. Then he tucked it into his subspace, safe and secure.

"Halt!"

Jazz's helm snapped up. A handful of mechs stood at the top of the arena, some with Enforcer decals, others with the gold logo of the Chamber Harmonic security force. All of them had their weapons drawn, staring at him through the long-range scopes of their rifles.

"Hands up," one of them ordered. "Don't move!"

Jazz chuckled despite himself. The one time the security system actually worked...

Without a word, giving them a little salute, he jumped and landed behind the podium, using it at as cover. They wouldn't dare shoot at it—

The sound of a ricochet and something whizzing past his helm, cracking one of the orchestra seats, made him reconsider. From the yelling going on behind him, while Jazz zigzagged in amidst the fine furnishings, the security force was screaming at the Enforcers not to fire. Criminal entry was no reason to take potshots around furniture worth more than the mech doing the shooting.

The resultant argument provided enough distraction for Jazz to reach the trap door in the center of the stage. Usually used to bring soloists or conductors dramatically into view, the sliding panel now gave him an escape route, and as he slipped into the darkness, he shut the trap door and locked it into place. With any luck, it would buy him a few kliks. Sealed properly, the door could support a mech several times Jazz's size, and not many mechs knew the routes where the vast underchamber led.

Even soloists and orchestra mechs had little idea of what lay beneath their pedes. Maintenance bots tasked with cleaning and repairing the trap doors and tunnels were the only ones who traveled it. The dusty job of keeping everything clear and in good working order was barely acknowledged by Metronome, and the maintenance bots were only tenuously aligned to Chamber Harmonic, paid but housed outside of the tower district.

But the maintenance bots knew where to hang a lamp or two so that the audience didn't spot the light, and they drank the best malted aluminum and tin while listening to the performance in the deeper, slightly warped tones that slipped through the floor. And if the black cybersheep of the Chamber Harmonic sat with them and heard the traditional songs in a darkness almost sacred, the maintenance bots kept their vocal units silent and shared the spiked energon Jazz brought.

He passed the exits that would have taken him backstage and continued on to a small hatch in the wall. Built for minibots, he could just fit if he pulled his wings in tight and crawled out into the empty foyer. The superb acoustics of the inner chamber carried the arguing voices of Enforcers and Security bots, but just ahead, Jazz spotted the main doors hanging off their broken hinges, wide open with only two active drones guarding the entrance.

He pulled himself out through the hatch and transformed to altmode once more, then dredged up every bit of power from his engines and streaked through the foyer, leaving a smudge of burned rubber behind him and scraping his sides on the doorframe as he crashed through a drone. Then he was out of the Rotunda Profundis and merging into traffic, using the dark shadow of an underpass to change his paint job back to white.

When he came home, quietly coming back in through the window he'd slipped out from, he found Prowl deep in recharge on the berth. Jazz vented in relief—Prowl probably didn't know his slave unit had been out at all—and he slid into the berth beside him. In his subspace, the sheet music sat with a satisfying weight.

~


	8. Jazz aides Prowl's investigation of a thief

News of the fiasco at the Rotunda Profundis greeted Prowl upon waking from recharge. On his optical heads-up display, the flashing alert spread open, heading a bullet list of other major incidents of the shift and querying if he wished further information.

Prowl groaned as he pushed himself upright, the sore servos in his joints crackling painfully. The longer he went on his pedes, the worse the static built up in his systems. The warped bits of his frame demanded time to straighten themselves out, and with a huffed vent, he sat so that he could lean back against the wall.

As always, his datapad lay on the small table beside the berth, always in arm's reach. As he took it up again, keying in his passcode, he briefly looked over the system updates and then opened Bluestreak's message containing the Enforcer report. Prowl reminded himself to give his subordinate bot a good word later on. Despite his high strung nature, Bluestreak was beginning to work well in his unit.

The report of the heist left a very poor impression of the responding Enforcers. A black and silver vehicle mech had all but walked into one of the cultural centers of Praxus and stolen an antique musical artifact, then vanished under the stage only to reappear racing through the grand hall and out, disappearing into the highway traffic. The only evidence left behind was a blurry still-photo and an equally blurry video feed of the back of the perpetrator.

Prowl frowned and slowed down the feed. The perpetrator headed down the aisle, then came up on the stage and turned around—

He paused it, studying the mech's frame. It looked...

...very blurry, he told himself sternly. He ran the video again, noting the care the mech took as the sheet music was gingerly rolled and tucked away in subspace. Then the Enforcers and security came in, guns drawn, and the mech turned—

This time when he stopped the video, there was no doubt. Blurry, low frame rate and no audio—Prowl knew this mech. That damn little salute came straight from the mech on the highway.

Bringing up the report, Prowl skimmed until he found the section about the break-in itself. There was no video outside, but the drones had recorded evidence of a sonic attack that shattered the doors. It had to be the joyrider—Prowl amended his internal notes. Not a joyrider anymore. This had escalated to grand theft.

But why? Prowl studied the video freeze, absorbing the arrogant tilt of the helm, the bright blur of pixels suggesting a visor, the lowered doorwings. There were so many mechs with a similar frame. If only he knew the reason for the theft, then he might discover the who—

"Some early shift energon, Pr—?" The door opened, and Jazz leaned in enough to look around the corner. "Aw, you're already up an' working."

Prowl glanced at his peripheral, then returned to studying his datapad. "I have been. For the past several breem." A thought struck him and he looked up at Jazz again, watching him come in with two cubes of energon. "You didn't just wake up now, did you?"

"Hey, I'm more of a 'crack of second shift' kinda mech. Inspiration don't come so easy when all you wanna do is recharge." Jazz grinned as he sat down on the edge of the berth, offering a cube. "Hungry? Didn't think you'd left to refuel yet."

"Thank you, and no." Prowl took the offered cube and sipped, remembering Ratchet's warning that drinking too fast could jolt his intake. "I won't be leaving for about half a deca-cycle. Medibot's orders."

"Finally started to feel it, huh?" Jazz nodded as he drank his own cube. "I remember my first hard spinout. I woke up with all those good sensor-dampeners in me. Didn't believe the medibot when she said to take it easy and had to spend an extra orn in the berth for it."

"All that cleaning last shift did it," Prowl admitted, finding it easier to say when Jazz confessed to the same thing. "But I won't let the discomfort affect my work."

"What's that?" Jazz asked, sneaking a peek around the side.

"An image of—"

Prowl hesitated. By all protocols, he shouldn't say. Jazz was not an Enforcer and these images were evidence in a major investigation.

But then Jazz was now his peripheral, and slave units could be commanded to remain silent. Even with the autonomy left to him after Prowl's defiance during the ceremony, Jazz could be trusted to keep this secret. And as a member of the Chamber Harmonic, he might even have inside understanding of the theft itself.

"It's an image of a thief," Prowl said, turning the datapad so that Jazz could see. "It's the best image I have of the mech who broke into the Profunda Rotundis and stole an antique."

"Huh..." Jazz stared at the image, then at Prowl. "You, uh, you all got him yet?"

"No," Prowl said, taking the datapad back. "The Enforcers don't even know if it's a 'he' yet, although this frame is unlikely to be a femme. I have strong suspicions, however."

"How come?" Jazz asked. He took a long sip from his energon cube, staring into the glowing liquid as Prowl answered.

"I've seen this mech before. The frame, the coloring, the method of entry and the salute all leave little doubt. This is the joyrider that we chased down a few orn ago." He vented hard in frustration. "We weren't able to get an image then. His attack burned out the optics in several Enforcers, which crashed their recording centers. But I'm almost sure it's him."

"Izzat so?" Jazz said. "What'd he take?"

"Some sort of sheet," Prowl said, calling up another file. "I'm not sure what, though. There's little information here. And Chamber Harmonic is refusing to answer our messages."

"I'm not surprised," Jazz said. "Let me guess, he took something small that you could roll up and stow easy?"

"Yes," Prowl said. "You know it?"

"Something like it," Jazz said, chuckling despite himself. "I mean, I don't know exactly which one it is, but see, it's like a tradition. The Chambers all try to one-up each other in donating gifts to museums and performance halls. Chamber Choral donates a rare instrument from the colonies. House Canto donates a bunch of credits 'cause they don't have anything old—they're a new house, y'know. If your thief took something off the podium, then odds are it's sheet music. And Chamber Harmonic is probably flipping their helm trying to hush it up."

"Why would they want to do so?" Prowl asked, musing out loud. "It wasn't their fault that it was stolen...unless it was an inside job."

"Oh, I doubt that," Jazz said. "It's just, it looks real bad that they couldn't keep an antique safe, y'know? A relic from the golden age and they lose it? Too cheap to get more than security drones. That loses 'em quite a bit of face among the more powerful towers."

"So what will they do?" Prowl asked. "If they aren't talking to the Enforcers. Private investigators?"

"You're so good sparked," Jazz said. "Investigators? Over this? I'd be surprised if that mech doesn't already have a pretty high bounty on his helm."

"Damn." Prowl put together what he'd learned in a short file and sent it to Bluestreak, with a note to keep it a secret from Ratchet. "That will only complicate matters. And I don't want that joyrider killed."

"No?" Jazz asked, perking up. "But he ran your mechs ragged. Laid you up."

"Speeding and theft do not warrant execution," Prowl said. "Imprisonment and fines would suffice."

"Aw." Jazz chuckled and took the empty cubes. "You're all right, Prowl. You're all right. Would'a thought you'd want 'em dismantled at least."

"Anger and revenge have no place in the Enforcers," Prowl said, settling back in for more work. "It's far better to approach all violations with logic and reason, and nothing else."

"Mm." Jazz tilted his helm, probably looking at Prowl sideways but it was impossible to tell with that damn visor. A small smile creased his faceplate as he stood. "Logic and reason ain't all that make the world go round. And that makes a pretty sweet lyric if I do say so myself. Please excuse me, I do hear the sweet song of inspiration calling me to write."

"'Write'?" Prowl echoed.

"Songs," Jazz said over his shoulder. "I feel the call and I must improvise something out of nothing."

"You write music?" Prowl said, not so much in question as simply repeating it to himself. "I thought all performances were of traditional works."

"Yeah," Jazz grumbled. "The Chambers don't like trying new stuff. Other chambers might cut 'em down. But I like trying. Or making new stuff out of something old."

He smiled at Prowl's blank face. "Sorry, guess it's a music thing. Good luck with your case an' all. Lemme know if you got more questions."

With a little wave that was decidedly not a salute, Jazz quietly closed the door behind himself. The rest of his day was spent bent over a thin sheet of clear polymer, jotting down ideas on his own datapad and sussing out how the notes on the page differed from what the Chamber conductor allowed them to play. "Traditional" did not always mean accurate, after all, and stray beats and measures not included in the official performance could turn something staid and boring into something fun or spontaneous.

Toward the end of shift, Jazz heard Prowl moving around downstairs, turning furniture upright and cleaning away the last crystal webs. Jazz felt a twinge of guilt. Prowl needed to rest in the berth. Maybe he should go down to help—

Help his "master" unit? He shook his head once. Like he was gonna go downstairs, lift even a finger to move anything. If Prowl needed anything, he could just order Jazz around anyway.

His spark clenched, and he looked around the little room he'd claimed for himself. Not that he'd decorated or set anything down. Everything he valued was tucked safe and sound in his subspace, and if Prowl told him he couldn't keep the room, then he wouldn't lose anything.

But Prowl hadn't forced him to reveal his whole cortex. Or give up the room. Or work for him. Or even stop playing music.

Another twinge of guilt twisted in him. Grimacing, his hands clenching on his chrys-guitar, Jazz forced himself to wait, listening to Prowl finish and slowly make his way up the stairs.

Did Prowl even care that he had a peripheral? He'd barely spoken at all to Jazz, and half of that had been over his shoulder. Maybe Prowl would leave him alone? Forever? The thought made his internal systems clench.

Subspacing his guitar, he got up and looked out the door. "Hey—?"

The door to Prowl's room closed.

Venting, Jazz stood wondering if he should knock or perhaps bring Prowl some fuel. He decided against it. Let the mech recharge. He could maybe try talking to him again in a shift change or two. For now, too wired to keep playing, he needed to drive off some of this anxiety. Maybe play tag with some of the Enforcers...although that was no fun with Prowl laid up.

Or maybe...

Jazz grinned.

He'd played at House Gourmant a few times. Perhaps the access codes still worked. Maybe he could learn a little bit about Prowl tonight anyway.

~


	9. Prowl is Summoned Briefly to House Gourmant

Prowl received his creator's call halfway through his recharge. The shrill whine pierced his audios, demanding his attention, and he was answering before he was entirely awake.

"Retentis," he murmured, pushing himself upright even though his creator couldn't see him. "Prowl here."

"Get to the main tower immediately."

Prowl froze. Reset his optics. The main tower? But—

"I was dismissed..."

Retentis didn't reply for a long moment. Mechs dismissed from their tower were not lightly called back. The punishment was meant to sting, nevermind that Retentis had shouted the dismissal commands to Prowl's back as his creation walked out in protest.

"We require the services of an Enforcer," Retentis said, fingertips drumming audibly on his desk. "In the tower. Now."

Groaning as he moved sore and weary joints, Prowl swung his pedes over the berth, then put his hand on the wall and slowly brought himself up. His doorwings tried to lift for balance, and he manually ordered them back down into their locked rest state.

"I am at minimal performance," Prowl said. "Necessary maintenance on the dwelling structure you provided required more effort than medically advisable—"

"There's an intruder in the east wing," Retentis snapped. "And he keeps slipping past our security drones. Now get down here before I demand your commanding officer cashier you."

Venting deep in his systems, Prowl shut his optics, then began moving toward the front chamber. "Very well. I am on my way. Please relay all information on this intruder."

Retentis had no idea what to send first. Prowl found himself receiving security feeds from the servant's garage, then internal feeds from the tower's corridors. He wondered why his creator would send him blank security video—even Retentis could tell empty footage—but then he spotted the miniscule shudder of a camera, caught the fleeting blur just outside the blind spot of another. The audio in the garage caught even less, just the tiny rumble of an engine in transformation and—

Prowl had changed to altmode before he'd even rolled out of the front door, swinging his aft in a donut of a turn as he sped to the main tower.

A laugh.

The audio had caught one singular laugh.

When he arrived at his home tower, Prowl transformed off the road and rushed toward the main door, ignoring the startled look of the doormech as he went inside. A security drone moved to intercept him, and as it drew close, Prowl put his hand on its front and pushed, at the same time delivering his Enforcer override deactivation code. With a squeak of static, the drone dropped to his pedes just as Retentis appeared, driving down the curving ramp of the main chamber.

"Finally!" his creator rumbled, revving hard. "This is all your fault. What did you leave in your chambers?"

Prowl faltered in his step. "My—chambers? What—"

"The intruder's gone in your chambers," Retentis said, and as he transformed, he loomed up over Prowl, doorwings flaring to make himself seem larger. "What did you leave behind? You were supposed to take everything!"

The shrill scolding, the crystal walls and impossibly high ceiling reaching several stories up all sent Prowl's memory back to his banishment, Retentis snarling as he followed Prowl, hissing outraged disappointment. A small supply of credits, some energon rations, his identification and a few trinkets from his academy days were all Prowl could grab and set in his subspace. So much else had been left behind, and he'd never been able to make himself ask Retentis if his things had been thrown away. By his creator's reactions, though, perhaps Retentis had simply locked the chamber and ignored it as if the room didn't exist.

"As I recall, you gave me half a breem to take anything," Prowl said.

He reached into his subspace and pulled out his datapad. As he opened the Enforcer log program, he felt his pedes snap a little closer, and his wings locked into formal position despite the low ache in the shoulder joints. With the datapad in hand, Prowl felt his rank settle on his shoulders again, his status as Enforcer overriding his position as disgraced son.

"I will require full access to the security feeds," Prowl said.

"Your cortex must be half melted," Retentis growled, his engine slamming into a higher gear. "How dare you ask for full access. You think I'd let a worthless outcast—"

Prowl cut him off before the insult could sting worse. If Retentis didn't have such a hold over him, this ranting would be the same as any sullen client angered by Enforcer protocols. As it was, the protocols were all Prowl could fall back on to save himself. 

"Perhaps you are correct. The security recordings will be too much for myself to handle. I will summon my assistants."

"What?" Retentis squawked. "No! You can't—"

"Command frequency: 029-00P-1. Bluestreak, Airazor, come in—"

"Fine!" Retetis came around in front of him, his helm visibly overheating. "You can see the feeds!"

"Belay my comm," Prowl said as he turned off his signal to two very confused Enforcers. "Very well. Give me the access code."

His faceplate set in a firm scowl, Retentis issued the code directly to Prowl's databanks, refusing to speak at all now. Prowl put his hand on the wall to steady himself and set to sleep mode his balance gyros, his optics, his speech center, his audios and his tactile processors. He hadn't been lying. Receiving so many visual and auditory feeds could make him crash if he didn't take precautions.

One by one, he brought each camera online, beginning with the first floor and moving up to the twentieth, where his old chambers lay. Half his processing power he devoted to viewing the feed as it came in, while the rest of his cortex filtered through the previous recordings until he found the ghost.

Half a cycle and a third of a breem back in the logs, he spotted the faintest wobble of a camera. Nothing else caught his notice, and he followed that motion to the next logical room. Nothing. To another camera. Nothing. In the east wing's hall, outside of the garage of Retentis' favorite pleasure mechs, he found a shadow where there should have been none. It flickered into existence and disappeared in the same moment, and Prowl guessed that their intruder had gone up a maintenance hatch.

Guesswork and previous knowledge of where the hatches lay let him filter out most of the cameras, focusing on a handful that he could then filter again. The ghost reappeared on the twentieth floor, and Prowl followed the camera wobbles and tiny blurs at the edge of each screen toward his old room.

Either the intruder had broken in before, or else the mech had extremely fine-tuned stealth mods, finding every blind spot on the way. Prowl focused on his chamber door. The bare hallway offered no place to hide, and as the mech popped out of the maintenance elevator—

Prowl vented in.

Confirmation.

Meister, easily recognizable in his black frame and silver visor, saluted the camera with a little wave and went straight to the door. He knelt by the lock for just a moment, and then the door mechanism released and allowed him in.

Optics, audio, balance, sensors—Prowl's cortex overheated dangerously as everything slammed back into place. Before all of his systems were online, he was running and sliding into the elevator, watching his creator's surprised face disappear between the closing doors.

Coolant flooded his helm, bringing painful clarity. Meister was in his chambers. Meister knew who he was. Why? What could he want? There was nothing valuable here. Meister had certainly passed floors with more worthwhile loot—ancient artifacts, stores of energon treats and credits.

In his subspace, Prowl kept a handful of energon chips and stimshots. He took both, flushing his system with a quick jolt of fuel and pain killers that numbed his damaged joints. Ratchet might offline him for this, but it'd be worth it if he could somehow bring in Meister.

He ran down the hall and slid to a stop in front of his chambers, reaching for his firearm in his subspace. Ratchet, overworked as always, had forgotten to demand he surrender it before going on health leave, and Prowl hadn't reminded him. He probably wouldn't have more than a single shot before Meister closed any space between them, but if he was lucky, one shot was all he'd need.

Venting deep, he keyed in his old access code, and the door opened with a nostalgic whoosh.

No one. His main chamber was empty, as he'd left it ages ago. Resisting the urge to check the video feeds again—Meister had to be here, he had to be—Prowl leaned in, holding his acid gun at the ready. He scanned the room, ignoring the twinge in his spark at seeing his old things.

Something scuffed in the side room.

Prowl slid his hand back to the light control on the wall and manually turned off the main chamber light. He slid quietly towards the side room, his pede knocking against the desk he'd forgotten about, and he stood in front of the door, steeling himself.

On the other side of the door, something dropped and clacked on the floor. Sure of his catch, Prowl reached for the control panel.

The side door slid open. Silhouetted in the light, Meister stood like a deep shadow, and his visor faintly lit the grin beneath.

Prowl fired just as the room erupted in overwhelming sonics and flash.

"...you know, you look a lot nicer when you ain't awake."

Tiny shocks rippled through Prowl's frame. Static faded in and out of his cortex. With his engine coughing and sputtering, Prowl groaned and tried to reset his optics. His balance gyros told him that he was off center, but it was impossible to tell how far back he lay. He scraped his fingertips on flat steel. Completely on his back, then, but his doorwings weren't flattened beneath him. How—?

His optics finally came online.

Between visual static and the long list of affected systems on his HUD, the blurry outline of a dark frame and silver visor came into view. Meister's infuriating grin greeted him, leaning over him like a repairbot with a patient, and as Meister shifted, Prowl found himself moving with him.

 _He's holding me,_ Prowl thought.

That's why his wings weren't flattened. Why his gyros were listing to one side. Why his sensors said that he was moving when he wasn't capable of moving yet.

"Why haven't you offlined me yet?" Prowl vented, gritting his denta in frustration as static squeaks riddled his voice. "Why are you doing this?"

"I wouldn't offline ya for a million cubes," Meister chuckled. His own speech processor warbled, obviously disguising his voice, as blurry as his outline.

"Is this just a game?" Prowl stalled as the list of systems coming back online grew. Could Meister read his frame repair rate? If Prowl could keep the mech talking, he still had a chance at arrest.

"Ain't no game," Meister shook his head. "It's dead serious. Wanted to know more about you. Found some interesting reading material in there."

Prowl stiffened. His tower logs—meticulous day to day activities, notes and plans for the future. All of them on his desk as they'd been when he'd left. He'd worried that Retentis had read them. Now that concern seemed so quaint.

"No—"

Prowl grasped blindly and his fingers slipped past two plates of armor. As Meister gasped, Prowl grabbed something soft and curled tight.

"Mech!" Meister froze, kneeling to try to close up the gap in his armor and finding Prowl's grip too deep. "Where'd you learn to fight?"

"You will unhand me," Prowl snarled, "and give yourself up."

"Sorry, Prowler," Meister said, taking a deep vent and wincing. "Gonna have to settle for two outta three."

In one fluid movement, Meister stood.

Prowl fell out of his lap, and a jolt of pain ran down his arm. As he rolled onto his front, shaking as his sensors took in too much information from loosened, torn joints, Prowl put weight on his hand and collapsed forward onto his shoulder and doorwing. His doorwing bent, and he saw his hand dangling from ripped connectors.

Along with a handful of small wires and cords.

From the floor, Prowl lifted his helm to see Meister leaning against the wall, one hand pressed against the pelvic joint Prowl had ripped into. Energon welled up between his fingers and dripped onto the floor.

"Good grip, fragger," Meister growled. "You'll excuse me if I show myself out."

"You can't go far on that," Prowl gasped, trying to push himself up and instead dragged down by the weight of his sparking doorwings. "Stop. The Enforcers have a m-medical bay—"

"You gotta be sparking," Meister said. "Enforcers would smelt me down first."

"Regulation 2.33-3 requires medical assistance," Prowl snapped. "And reg—reg 2.35-6 mandates immed—immed—immed—"

Prowl coughed, forcing his vocalizer to reset. "Just stop fighting and let me help!"

Meister stared at him for a moment, then chuckled deep in his engine. He swallowed down a mouthful of oil and antifreeze as he tried to keep his fluids from coming up. The pain was shorting his equilibrium. Without reply, he pressed against his joint with one hand while stepping over Prowl, heading for the door.

"What's so damn funny?" Prowl said over his shoulder.

"You are," Meister said, not turning around. "You're a real piece o' work."

Meister's steps faded into nothing. Another breem passed before Prowl's self-repair progressed enough to let him get to his pedes, leaning hard on his desk. Surrounded by the remnants of his old life, his only thought was to carefully subspace the handful of cords still in his grasp.

Ratchet would be furious. The gossip might slip out in the precinct about who his creators were and his disgraced House status. None of that mattered, though.

Cords had numbers. Pieces could be traced. In his hand, Prowl finally had his first clue.

Coughing flecks of energon, sparking at the joints, Prowl made his way step by step to the elevator, walked over two security drones downed by a sonic and light burst. Then out the main chamber, ignoring the looks of startled, scandalized noble mechs and the gaping silence of his creator.

"Prowl..." Retentis vented. "What..."

"Case 029-P781.56-3," Prowl said, not looking at them, optics only on the door as each painful step took longer and longer. "Formally opened. Intruder remains at large. You may contact the Enforcers at Precinct 29.3 in five cycles for further information. That is all."

"But—" Retentis stepped back out of his way, staring at the grim smile on his creation's face. "You're—"

"That is all."

Prowl had never been so happy to fall back on Enforcer protocols. As he finally passed the front door and transformed, shifting his systems slowly and gingerly setting his tires on the road, he drifted to the slow lane and rolled towards the precinct. Calling in his case and condition brought an immediate harangue from the medical bot, but Prowl barely listened.

A piece of Meister sat inside him. The hunt was on.

~


	10. Prowl's Diary Inspires a Song

Spinning energon treats paid the bills, but science was actually Wheeljack's passion. Mad science, Jazz would have said, but the 'bot gave good repair service in a pinch. Even better, he was discreet. In the time it took Jazz to explain what had happened, his ripped cords had been patched, soldered, and polished to match the rest of his armor.

Back home in his own chamber now, plucking distractedly at his chrys-guitar, Jazz tried not to look at his pelvic joint. The cord colors were right, the linkages were all repaired and Wheeljack had even buffed out the chips and scratches left by Prowl's fingers. Still... No matter how much he wheedled Wheeljack into using standard parts and linkups, there was always a small doubt that the repair might explode.

Jazz rotated his pede, trying to work out the stiffness. It would take several cycles for his pede to move properly, and as cluelessly antisocial as Prowl could be, the other mech was sure to notice eventually. So how to hide it? Or should Jazz explain it instead?

If he hid away up here playing, maybe Prowl wouldn't see him limp. Or he could beg off that he was sick and feign a choked engine for awhile. At least he could hold his chrys-guitar across his lap just so, hiding the joint.

As he considered his problem, he read, skimming Prowl's journal.

_DecaCycle 12-81: Spent five joor calculating Chamber finances. Focused on the transports from Kaon. Shipments 822-988. Returned to chambers and continued compiling Theta-Kota's treatise on experimental infinite calculus._

_DecaCycle 12-93: Spent five joor calculating Chamber finances. Focused on the transports from Kaon—still encountering a deficit in Miscellaneous Freight. Shipments 1023-1086. Returned to chambers and completed Theta-Kota's treatise on experimental infinite calculus. Began Maxell's computation of pi._

_DecaCycle 13-12: Spent four joor calculating Chamber finances. Traveled to the thirteenth level to Freight Reception for inspection. Yard master Scuff resistant and passively hostile. Discrepancies found in official Chamber numbers and Yard numbers. Yard ledger downloaded._

Jazz idly plucked at his guitar, a few strings to relieve the flow of journal entries. Prowl was no great storyteller, but knowing Prowl's past gave the journal a sense of impending doom. With each cycle, Prowl came closer and closer to finding the corruption in his Chamber, and closer to becoming a tower outcast.

_DecaCycle 17-37: Evidence collected in datapad. Retentis enraged, refusing dialogue. My passcodes have been revoked. Leaving for the Enforcers as soon as data has finally compiled._

The journal ended there. Jazz could fill in the rest. Prowl found a place with the Enforcers and tried to put tower life behind himself. Until his creators demanded that he cement a foundation with Chamber Harmonics. And for as far as Prowl had moved on from being Retentis' creation, he still obeyed his maker's command.

"Didn't move on far enough," Jazz murmured, shutting down the journal feed. His fingers picked chords at random, then moved more deliberately, with more purpose. "Didn't move on at all."

A melody began to pick up, rising out of atonal chords that started to repeat. Here was the secret shame of Chamber Harmonics, that one of their best guitarists was given to atonal music without a central key, without "harmony" or a mathematical core to his melodies. Jazz closed his optics, allowing the rhythm to swing off-beat.

"Tore yourself up trying to serve, but you couldn't even serve yourself."

The ancient sheet music he'd stolen lay on the floor in front of him. He kept both pedes at a careful distance, and as much as he wanted to, he didn't scribble anything on the side or in the margins, and the sheet lay on the floor only after he'd cleared away all the dust and broken bits of sharp crystal. Long ago, he'd scanned every note and meter from a copy, but there was something about having the music actually in front of him, physically there, that made composing so much more fulfilling.

And as he went over the notes, he'd found differences. Key changes. Strange notes seemingly tossed in without reason, but when played with the whole piece, became counterpoints to enrich the rest of the song. Not as wild as his own compositions, but far less staid than Chamber Harmonic.

"Walk on, mech, walk on," he sang, "the road's no end in sight. Walk on 'till the lights go out, never took a step at all."

A moment passed. The sound of the chord died on the bare walls, and Jazz relaxed his grip on the guitar as he sat straight, easing the ache in his pelvic joint.

The light shuffle at the door made his helm snap up.

Prowl stood in the doorway, hand on the frame, resting with his doorwings drooped. His optics, half-shut, stared at a point passed Jazz, and his gears audibly groaned.

"My apologies," Prowl murmured. "I did not mean to make you stop."

"Prowl," Jazz vented, one hand up as if he wanted to stand and go to him. The stab of pain in his joint reminded him not to move. "What...what happened? Why ain't you in the berth? What—"

"I am headed there now," Prowl said. "I required medical aid before I could return. Meister was not as gentle as before."

"Oh." Jazz squirmed with a twinge of guilt. "Why were you after him? I thought you were s'posed to rest already."

"...my creator summoned me," Prowl said, as if that explained everything. To Jazz, it did. "Meister seems to have a special interest in myself. He ransacked my old chambers in House Gourmant."

Fighting the urge to argue that he hadn't had to ransack anything to find a journal left in plain sight, Jazz found himself listening to the strained systems in Prowl's frame. For an Enforcer, even a retrofitted officer, Prowl had little in the way of combat mods. Only his high-class tower creation allowed him to keep up with Jazz at all. And he probably couldn't claim a personal repair bot or the speed and stealth boosts that Jazz found useful.

"Well, what you standing around for?" Jazz said. "Get to the berth. I'll be right after you, bring you up some energon."

"I..." Prowl tilted his helm. "Do you always play like that?"

"Huh?" Jazz, reminded of the music, suddenly remembered that he had the sheet music right between his pedes in plain sight. Coolant flooded him, fighting the rush of heat to his face and hood. "Play like what?"

"I don't know," Prowl said, closing his optics fully and letting his helm droop. "My cortex is fuzzy right now, but I do not believe I've ever heard that style of music."

"It ain't for everyone," Jazz said, sliding one pede in front of the sheet to block Prowl's view. His joint suddenly throbbed, but he ignored the pinched cords. "Chamber don't like it none, neither. S'why I ain't allowed to solo."

"And why they married us together." Prowl vented, a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "Their loss."

Prowl turned and moved from the doorway, slowly putting one pede in front of the other. The moment he moved from sight, Jazz scooped up the sheet music back into his subspace, sighing in relief. As much as moving aggravated the new, overly tight connectors and stiff cords, he figured bringing Prowl a cube wouldn't raise suspicions if Prowl was too laid up to notice Jazz's limp.

Only after Prowl refueled and fell into recharge, after Jazz had returned to his own berth and set down his new lyrics in a proper song file, did Jazz realize Prowl had complemented him. A flush of warmth spread from his spark, and he smiled despite the ache.

"Meister," Jazz whispered behind closed doors, "is gonna have to be a lot more gentle with you from now on, mech."

~


	11. Confessions Over Energon

Orn passed. Jazz brought Prowl his cubes, sitting on the berth while his master unit studied terabytes surrounding Meister's few known crimes. Jazz even found himself driving to the Enforcer precinct to gather a datapad left on Prowl's desk, pausing long enough for a cup of tar with Bluestreak.

Prowl's working vacation ended when his Enforcer-issued datapad seized up in his hand and flashed a black screen with glyphs that Jazz hadn't been able to read at his angle. Prowl, however, had huffed and smacked the datapad down on the berth, refusing to say anything more than "just Ratchet."

With his defunct datapad beside him and his hands empty, however, Prowl looked up at Jazz with wide optics. A moment passed.

"Don't tell me," Jazz started, "you ain't got anything else to do."

"I thought he wouldn't notice," Prowl said. He glanced back at his datapad, turning it over as if it might restart. "It's just reading."

"It's work," Jazz said, "one of the most disgusting words there is. Your bot Ratchet's got the right idea. What about vids? Novel files? Anything that ain't work."

Prowl shrugged and winced as his wing jostled. "My caseload consumes all of my time."

"Now that ain't healthy," Jazz said. "What about, uh, math stuff? You like calculating, right? What about datafiles on weird math?"

"I would rather not." Flat and cold, Prowl cut that thought off completely. "I did read experimental mathematical treatises in the past. Half a vorn ago. I no longer wish to."

Jazz leaned back. So the bot didn't want anything to do with the past, if the waves of gloom coming off him were any clue.

"Then how's about a vid? I ain't got any on me, but I could download something off the—"

Prowl shook his helm, slowly, with his hand pressed against his neck joints. "I can't stand them."

"You can't stand..." Jazz echoed. "You mean to tell me you don't ever watch any vids?"

"They make no sense," Prowl said, grimacing. He refused to meet Jazz's look, instead finding the berth interesting. "The characters behave illogically, the laws of physics are ignored, and the narratives would never happen in real world scenarios."

"That's kinda why they're cool," Jazz said, but he didn't push. In all of Prowl's journals, he didn't recall even one mention of vids or parties with friends. "Oh well. Guess you don't game, either."

"Unless you mean calculation challenges," Prowl said, knowing that Jazz didn't. "Working a series of matrices of a thousand rows and columns each."

"Definitely not." Jazz huffed and leaned back, swinging his pedes back and forth. "Okay, then how about this? I bring us up a couple more cubes and we get good an' sloshed an' talk about how bad our creators are."

Prowl hesitated. Such an action was petty and self-defeating. Complaining would do no good. And the bots he'd witnessed overenergizing acted as if they'd lost all control of their central cortex.

But he knew so little about Jazz. This would provide a fine opportunity to glean more information about his peripheral, to find out why they'd been shoved together and possibly discern a clue about their creators' intentions with this marriage.

And, as he thought about it, he realized that he did want to vent. A little.

"That sounds acceptable," Prowl nodded. "Please bring only two more for me. I do not know how much I can tolerate, and I do not think Ratchet wants me to find out right now."

Jazz reset his optics. He started to say that he hadn't expected Prowl to agree, then cut himself off. Why risk his master unit changing his mind? He was downstairs and back up again, pouring them each a portion.

"So," Jazz started, "when'd you first realize your creator was slag?"

Prowl stared at the cube in his hand. His fuel gauge told him that he was completely full and that this energon should be put away for later. It would be wasteful to drink it now.

But Jazz looked at him so expectantly, his familiar grin curling up in a way that wasn't the frozen, fixed expression Jazz had worn these past few cycles. His peripheral wanted this. If Prowl didn't give in a little, he might lose that good will. Prowl looked back down at the cube, then told his logic center to skip the storage subroutine and instead took a long sip.

"Retentis was always stern," Prowl said, coughing as the energon overflowed and sizzled the edges of his intake. "He does not give praise unless there is some benefit to himself. But for his ethics...I knew something was wrong a few cycles after my creation."

"That quick?" Jazz slammed the energon back in one go, then poured another cube. "It took me ages to figure it out."

"My creation itself was a clue," Prowl said. "I am not an artist. I am a financier in a house of designers and mineral workers. My function was to prowl through their ledgers to balance their profits with their spending."

"So it was glorified calculating," Jazz said.

"Exactly," Prowl nodded. "A drone could have done it. But to carefully conceal illegal contraband and manage our shipments to cover smuggling out of the city, that needed more than a drone. Unfortunately, I cannot perform that function."

"Smuggling's illogical?"

Prowl tilted his helm. "Partly."

"Oh?"

Tapping his cube, staring at his reflection in thought, Prowl vented softly. "It seems so petty to say it now."

"Unless you've rigged someone's seat to wobble through a whole concert," Jazz said, "I don't think you can beat me for petty."

Prowl frowned. "To wobble?"

"Trust me," Jazz said, "it'll make a musician overclock. Rickety chair and they can't stop to fix it? But it was funny as the pit, too."

Prowl stared at Jazz, half of a mind to scold his slave unit for harassment. But the energon left a dull warmth through his cortex, pleasantly overheating his frame, and Jazz's misdeeds were in the past. Prowl commanded him now, so any harassment would clearly never happen again.

"So?" Jazz nudged him. "Why'd you balk at your creator?"

"I wanted him to acknowledge my work," Prowl said. "I wanted...I behaved illogically."

"He never said nothing to ya?" Jazz asked.

"Orders," Prowl said readily. "Commands. Nothing of note."

He vented, taking another sip. His whole frame prickled with tiny crackles of static electricity snapping in his joints. As he looked at Jazz again, his optics skipped and reset.

"Computing finance requires no great praise," Prowl murmured. "I did nothing that a roomful of calculating processors could not accomplish."

"Tch," Jazz scoffed, finishing his cube and pouring himself another drink. "You ain't no calculator."

"Retentis thought I was," Prowl said. "He...he had me working on the data until discrepancies appeared, and then refused to explain anything. As if I could simply make the errors disappear."

"Could you?" Jazz asked.

Prowl paused. He opened his mouth to answer, then hesitated. His cortex worked sluggishly, calling up memory files he hadn't used for ages, sliding through each one too carefully, examining each one deliberately. Kliks ticked by as he examined ancient information.

"I...might have been able to," Prowl said softly. "If he had told me what he wanted."

The truth of it hurt. He could have done what his creator wanted. He could have given Retentis exactly what he'd been commanded, if only he'd known what he was supposed to do. Not what the law said was required, but what the Tower required. Prowl could have been part of his House still.

If Retentis had treated him as a mech and not a calculator, incurious, with simple programming.

"Worthless pile of scrap," Prowl muttered, immediately guilty for saying it and stubbornly refusing to take it back, even in his own mind.

"Now that I can agree with," Jazz said as he topped off Prowl's cube. "Any mech treats you like yours did, that just ain't right. You was wronged, Prowl, plain an' simple."

Prowl shrugged, not arguing. But he was tired of the subject, and he looked at Jazz instead. "And you? Were you wronged?"

"Primus, hell no," Jazz laughed. "I did what they hate me for."

Prowl raised his helm, surprised at Jazz's admission. "You...?"

"You all been saying it," Jazz said, gesturing with his cube so that energon splashed his fingertips. "Chamber music's boring and dry and slow. Ain't no spark to it."

Prowl didn't reply, not sure he could comment on music intelligently while also enthralled by how Jazz licked the energon from his fingers. The pliant steel of his peripheral's tongue slipped between each digit, letting no energon go to waste. Jazz even caught a pink drop from between the plates of his wrist, winking at Prowl as he sat straight again.

Prowl swallowed once. Did Jazz know—?

He snorted. Of course. Prowl didn't even have to run the numbers on that. Of course he knew what he was doing. Jazz was a charmer.

Prowl looked into his cube, staring at his reflection. The real question was, would Prowl let him?

"Lemme top you off," Jazz said, adding a little energon to Prowl's cube and disturbing his reflection. "There, better. An' yeah, chamber music's like an overworked engine. Does its job but ain't no fun no more. Ain't no feeling in it. They've refined every bit of spark out of it."

Jazz shrugged, knocking back another cube.

"So.." he continued, "I tried something different. Improvised off of Trill's Third Concerto in B. Y'know, tried it in C major, C minor...then I couldn't help it. Kinda wandered off in the third movement."

"'Wandered'?" Prowl said. "I don't..."

"It's like...well, like how you just get that feeling that the chord wants to zig but the chorus is zagging."

Jazz and Prowl stared at each other, and Jazz realized that his master unit had no idea what a movement was or the difference between major and minor, and he certainly didn't know about zagging chords. A familiar emptiness spread through him. No one ever got what he meant. That was the whole reason he was the black cybersheep anyway.

"Don' worry 'bout it," Jazz vented, stretching his pedes out and staring at the floor. "Don't matter none, I guess. Point is, they didn't like it an—"

"Wait," Prowl said, and he put his hand on Jazz's. "Show me?"

"Huh?" Jazz looked to his hand, then up at Prowl.

"What do you mean? I don't have prior understanding of music like this." Prowl tilted his helm. "What do you mean, zigging instead of zagging?"

The words sounded awkward in Prowl's mouth. Jazz hesitated. He couldn't make anyone else in his Chamber understand. What hope did he have of explaining something so abstract to Prowl? But then no one in his Chamber had asked what he meant or how he improvised. They only demanded to know why he was trying to sabotage his own creators.

He put his hand to his subspace hatch, glanced at Prowl who kept watching him, and then Jazz withdrew his chrys-guitar. He slung it over his lap, wincing as it pressed the stiff cords in his hip joint.

"All right," Jazz said, taking in a long vent. "I guess...have you ever listened to Trill's concerto?"

Prowl shook his head. "I've only heard the concerts I had to work security on."

"Gotcha." Jazz rotated his shoulder, then set his fingers on the guitar and tried a few swift chords, making sure it was still in tune. "All right, lemme play you a little, just the first part."

Prowl listened, recognizing the song as it went on. He'd heard it once, although he hadn't known the title, overwriting the memory file with more important data from that particular security detail. The notes sounded different when only one mech played, clear and natural instead of a hundred guitars bleeding into each other.

Half a breem passed. Jazz suddenly stopped, and Prowl's doorwings startled up at the halt. He'd never heard music stop except when it was supposed to end.

"Okay, so that's the first part of it," Jazz said, focused on the sound and not noticing Prowl's twitch. "Now, this is what I turned it into...um...sorry if it sounds a bit weird, 'kay?"

Jazz started again. Prowl heard the same melody again, but at a low point, Jazz's fingertips drew the note longer than the song demanded. As he held the chord, Prowl felt his wings lift, anticipating the next note. And then the notes came in a rush, cascading down like acid rain in a way that Prowl didn't understand, and yet he couldn't say that it wasn't still the same song. The melody was familiar, but the rhythm, the speed...

"What is this?" Prowl murmured, more to himself than to Jazz. He'd forgotten how sensitive Jazz's audio sensors were. His slave unit paused, letting the chord echo and trail off.

"Not really sure yet," Jazz admitted, shrugging. "It just sounded right to me. Can't stop playing with all the old pieces."

"You improvised the song as you went?" Prowl said.

"I guess." Jazz put the chrys-guitar back in subspace, not meeting his look. "Metronome can't stand it. He heard me, we argued. I said some things and I...well, I thought my place in the Chamber was stronger than it really was. "

Prowl paused. Playing a song differently in private seemed like such a small transgression. Certainly not as terrible as going to the Enforcers with a House's corrupt budget books. They had really forced Jazz into a slave function over that?

"It's a waste," Prowl said, tilting his helm to see Jazz's visor. "I would remember song titles if they sounded like that."

Jazz lifted his helm, smiling at the recognition, and his visor glowed a little brighter.

When Prowl asked him to continue, Jazz picked up where he'd left off, nodding his head in time with the song.

~


	12. Flirting Over Minor Maintenance

Ratchet may have locked Prowl out of his work station, but Prowl could still access the civilian news frequencies, and the lack of updates on Meister made him update his feed a thousand times per nanoklik.

Meister did not appear for several orn. At first Prowl wondered if the other mech was still nursing the cables torn out during their fight, but as time went on, Prowl could come to no other conclusion than Meister was waiting for him. Ripped cables were easily replaced, especially if the thief knew a non-licensed repair bot, and if he could unload the stolen sheet music without being caught, then no doubt Meister had a support base to draw on.

"Makes sense," Jazz said as Prowl mused out loud. "There's a black market for stolen artifacts. Lots of mechs would pay a lot of creds for an original sheet o' music. Like me, if I had that kind of coin again."

Prowl looked askance from his datapad, eyeing his peripheral skeptically. "Would you?"

"Sure," Jazz said. "Anyone in the Chamber would. Original music like that...imagine what you could do with it, without vorn of changes and alterations getting in the way."

A splash of solvent, and then Jazz ran the cleaning cloth along Prowl's pede, allowing the thin textile to slip between the plating and slide along delicate internal components. Hot liquid trickled down to Prowl's lower joint, sluicing clumped oil and leaving behind clean, gleaming metal.

Prowl pressed his lips together and looked away. "Again, while I appreciate it, you need not attend me in this manner."

"Don't be silly, bossmech," Jazz smiled, wringing out the cloth and soaking it again. "Unless you can get to the washracks without stumbling again."

A subtle stress on the word 'again' made Prowl frown. "I did not expect the strained joint to buckle. It will not happen again."

"Yup," Jazz said. "'Cause I got this."

Jazz ran the cloth along Prowl's shoulder, letting rivulets of solvent drip down into the Enforcer's hood. Prowl didn't reply, closing his optics instead. Jazz found the loose plates of armor, the gaps that led to his protoform, and solvent slicked the spaces in Prowl's hood that he normally never touched. Then Jazz's fingers ran the ring of Prowl's headlights, clearing any lingering dust, and the larger mech vented and sat straight.

"You like that?" Jazz asked, smiling up at him.

"I..." Prowl bit his glossa and lay back again. "It is sufficient."

Jazz's smile faded slightly, and he gave a soft vent as he wrung out the cloth again. "That all you can give me?"

"Sufficient is accurate," Prowl said, scrolling down on his screen. "And commendable. Even medibots do not perform nursing tasks so efficiently."

"Well," Jazz murmured, "ain't 'xactly my first time. But I guess if you want efficient..."

He reached out and took Prowl's hand, pulling it away from the datapad despite the grumble from his master unit. As he pulled it closer, Jazz turned Prowl's palm up and drew the cloth across his fingers, coating it in a layer of solvent. The multitude of sensors in Prowl's hand flared and grew warm, and Prowl shifted in his berth as Jazz wiped the excess from his hand.

And then, expecting his slave unit to release him, Prowl's vent caught as Jazz instead folded the cloth to make a tiny crease and ran that crease through the fine gaps in his finger-plating. Multiple joints required dozens of tiny flicks lightly brushing the servos and minute wires, and Prowl only remembered to vent when his HUD flashed an engine heat warning.

When Jazz finished, he bent and pressed a kiss into Prowl's palm, then finally released him.

"Still 'sufficient'?" Jazz echoed.

Prowl swallowed once, curling his fingers as he brought his hand back up to his hood. He didn't look at Jazz.

The hesitation stretched, and Jazz's face fell. He lowered his helm, thinking that he shouldn't have pushed, and he let the cloth sink back into the pail.

"I can help you get to the washracks," Jazz offered. "Won't be as hot 'cause the pipes still ain't working right, but—"

"I think you should finish," Prowl said, still refusing to meet Jazz's look. "And do the same with my other hand. Please."

Jazz reset his optics. And grinned.

~


	13. Two Mechs, One Tub

Half an orn passed. Prowl sat upright in the berth, watching the snowy Enforcer feed he'd managed to pirate onto his datapad. Hopefully Ratchet wasn't monitoring this datapad anymore now that official Enforcer communication signals were blocked. Aggravating, but at least Prowl could see that Meister hadn't appeared again.

"Tell me that's not the news," Jazz said from the doorway. "Vids, music, anything, just not—"

"Signal 83.9 Enforcer broadcast." Prowl tilted the datapad sideways as if that would clear up some of the static. "There is a situation near my precinct headquarters."

"A 'situation'? Lemme see..." Jazz came in and sat down on the berth, leaning lightly against Prowl's side and resting his helm on Prowl's hood. "Mech, how can you make out anything?"

Prowl didn't argue. Black and white, the screen was more static and bouncing lines than the image of the bail bond mech offices across from the Enforcer precinct. He motioned at the blur in the corner, the indistinct shape near the top.

"I can tell a few things," Prowl said. "That's Bluestreak, and Airazor is flying a holding pattern while they wait for the negotiator."

"Huh." Jazz tilted his helm and squinted. "I guess. Why ain't they just charging in?"

"I do not know," Prowl said, a touch of frustration tinging his voice. "As I have no access to their communications. However, my best guess would be that they are serving as backup while the hostage unit team ascertains where the criminal mechs are so the snipers can—"

Two loud pops came from the datapad. A klik later, half a dozen mechs ran out of the building, hands up.

"I was right." Prowl waited until he saw Bluestreak transform to drive away, then turned off the video feed and let the signal continue to play in the background. "A quiet night otherwise."

"You ever have to do that?" Jazz asked. "Go after bad mechs?"

Prowl shifted uncomfortably. "Not usually, no. I am a officially a statistician." At Jazz's blank look, he explained further. "I calculate odds and percentages, the likelihood of a crime to take place. Sometimes I am called upon to examine evidence on a cold case and posit new leads."

"So you visit crime scenes?" Jazz asked. "Cool."

"No, I only read the files brought to my desk. Those are usually sufficient."

Jazz lightly tapped the joint of Prowl's pede, careful not to jostle the healing servos. "But you got all banged up. How's that happen behind a desk?"

Prowl shifted again. "I happened to be coming off of shift when our traffic units reported a joyrider blasting by them as if they were standing still. I joined the chase."

"Uh-huh." Jazz sat straight, moving the datapad out of the way. "Izzat why you came to the wedding half slagged?"

"...do you have the hot oil running properly now?" Prowl asked. "You said you would finish repairs in the washracks."

"...yeah, the hot oil's working." Jazz smiled ruefully, knowing a subject switch when he heard one. He also knew a good slave bot wouldn't say anything about it for now. "Think you can handle standing in the washracks, O master of mine? Or you want me to go draw a bath?"

Prowl raised an eyeridge at Jazz's snark, but he let it slide without comment. Jazz could be sarcastic, but he did as commanded. And hadn't Prowl allowed him that autonomy in the first place? What good was that individuality if Prowl didn't let him indulge in it?

"A bath," he answered, turning to put his pedes on the floor. "I don't want to push anything that's still healing. Ratchet will have my helm as it is."

"One of these days I gotta meet this Ratchet," Jazz grinned, holding out a hand to help steady Prowl. "He can't be that scary."

"He keeps the entire Enforcer precinct in line," Prowl said. "Even the captains do not countermand him."

With Prowl firmly leaning on Jazz's shoulder, the smaller mech carefully walked him down the hall to the washracks. The door to his own room lay open, and Prowl noted the scattered datapads, polymer writing sheets and empty energon cubes. The chrys-guitar lay against the berth with a handful of strings hanging off their pins.

Jazz noticed his look and smiled sheepishly. "Sorry 'bout the mess, bossmech. I'll clean it up later. Or maybe just shut the door."

"...it's fine," Prowl said after a klik. "It's your room. I'm glad you've settled into it at last."

Jazz felt his faceplate heat up. So Prowl had noticed before, that Jazz had kept all of his possessions locked up in his subspace. Of course. Prowl's job was to take unseen clues and create a bigger picture out of them.

Jazz shuddered down to his core. He'd have to be careful. He could change his coloring as Meister, but he couldn't change his frame. If his master even felt a hint of suspicion—

"Bring it to 53 degrees," Prowl said as he eased onto the edge of the bath. "Slowly."

"What scale?" Jazz asked, turning the faucet and pushing the lever that controlled the heating coils beneath the floor. "Azzin, Mercuron, Kevlin?"

"Mercuron scale," Prowl said, but he smiled despite himself. "Are you showing off?"

"Just wanted to be sure," Jazz said with a wide grin. "Since you're the one going in. Figured a fine mech of tower breeding might use a different scale than us lowly musicians."

"Azzin is only for cooking silicates and energon treats," Prowl said, and he ran his fingers through the warming oil. "Unless you're trying to warn me of your intentions now."

"Wouldn't never try to smelt ya," Jazz said, and he locked the heat lever into position. "Not many mechs would give their peripheral this much leeway, y'know."

"That is...true." Prowl stared at their reflections in the black liquid, rippling as it bubbled. Jazz met his look, a blur of blue light in the darkness. "You're a tower mech as well. Do musicians use a different scale?"

"Heh, only if you mean musical scale." Jazz said. "I learned Kevlin industrial heat scale from my buddy Wheeljack."

Jazz put his hand out, helping Prowl ease off the edge and into the oil. The larger mech vented in, wincing at the heat, then slowly relaxed as stiff cords warmed and loosened, as tight connectors became lubricated and loose. His optics half-closed as his helm tipped forward.

"Wheeljack...that's the mech I saw you with," Prowl mused. "After the ceremony."

"Yup," Jazz nodded. "Known him since ever. He fixes me up after every...uh, after every scrape up."

Jazz stumbled over his words, flinching as Prowl's gaze focused on him. Slipped secrets around Prowl were deadly. The Enforcer wouldn't miss a single clue, and if he even suspected that Wheeljack was more than just a handy repair bot... If the worst ever happened, Jazz at least didn't want to take his friend down with him.

"He didn't seem like a medical bot," Prowl said.

"He's not," Jazz said too quickly. "He's just...well, he invents things. New drinks, new mechanics. The silicates are just his shift job. And he tightens up anything I knock loose so I ain't gotta visit the tower medibots, y'know. They would'a gone straight to Metronome."

"Mm." Prowl considered it...then let it go, sinking down in the oil again.

Jazz vented softly. Safe.

Then vented again as he watched Prowl lay his helm back on the rim of the tub, closing his optics. In the cooler air, wafts of steam began to rise as the oil hit its proper temperature. Black oil slicked off Prowl's hood and trickled along his armor plates, slipping between the thin crevices to disappear deep into his joints. Prowl vented deep, his engine rumbling quietly with a steady hum, and his wings angled to sink halfway into the heat.

When Prowl arched, raising his hood as he stretched, Jazz's engines audibly revved.

Prowl glanced at him in surprise. "Are you all right? You normally run silent."

"Yeah..." Jazz shifted on the tub, grabbing one of the oil cloths and tending to what bits of Prowl were exposed above the bath. "Just caught me off guard is all."

Confused, Prowl sat a little straighter, frowning as Jazz polished his pede joint, lavishing hot oil over the metal. Jazz refused to meet his look—his faceplate had warmed visibly, his engine was still audible—all of which added up to an upset mech.

"I did not mean to offend you," Prowl said. "I didn't think—you seemed adamant about helping me in the berth that I did not think a bath would be—"

"It ain't no thing," Jazz said too quickly. "No thing at all—just didn't—"

"Jazz—"

Prowl put his hand around Jazz's wrist, meaning to stop him from acting like a bath attendant mech. Jazz instead startled and tried to resist, which tripped Prowl's Enforcer coding and made him pull back.

And the smaller mech went sideways into the bath.


	14. Interfacing

Amidst the oil sloshing over the side and hissing on the cold floor, Prowl's first thought was that Jazz's systems might be hurt by the heat. A nanoklik later, he realized that made no sense since Jazz had put his hands into the oil before. Then, as Jazz struggled to stabilize his gyros now soaked in lubricant, he wondered if Jazz's frame would spark—not all mechs were made to be immersed in oil.

Prowl sat straight, giving Jazz more room. The smaller mech finally got his balance, straddling Prowl's pedes, and Jazz leaned back with his hands on the side of the tub. Black oil streaked his visor, slowly running down his neck cables and plating.

"Um...you okay, bossmech?" Jazz said, blinking oil out of his optics. "Kinda landed on you there."

"I will survive," Prowl said, putting his hands on Jazz's shoulders. "I should ask you the same."

"A little hotter than I go for," Jazz chuckled ruefully, "and not as graceful as I usually go in, but I'm okay."

They stared at each other for a long klik, both of them venting in surprise...and then Jazz gave a small laugh, leaning back on his pedes. Prowl watched him long enough to tell if a logic circuit had been fried, then calculated how unlikely that was and smiled despite himself.

"If you wanted a bath as well," Prowl said, "you only had to wait."

Jazz gazed at him, his smile fading into lips pursed in contemplation. He raised a hand to Prowl's hood, running his fingers over the shape of his master's headlights, the curve of his protective spark shield's covering. He met Prowl's confused look.

"What if I didn't wanna wait?"

The question could have held multiple meanings. The deep revving of Jazz's engine could mean only one thing.

Prowl opened his mouth to speak and found he couldn't. He managed instead to open their internal communications.

_Are you certain? Prowl asked. You do not have to do this._

Kliks passed. Jazz at first felt his wings drop, heavy with the thought that Prowl didn't want this kind of contact, perhaps contemplating how to convey that to Jazz. But as the moment lengthened and Prowl didn't push him away, swallowing the tiny bit of oil that had slipped past his lips, Jazz realized that Prowl had no intention of stopping this...whatever this was.

_I know,_ Jazz answered. _S'part of why I want to._

_Do not do it to spite them._ Prowl frowned, almost scolding him. _I will not interface if that's all this is._

Jazz shook his head once, touching Prowl's faceplate, running his thumb over the smooth steel. Something about internal communication felt closer, more intimate. As if Prowl was already inside him.

_You're really well made, y'know that?_

Prowl narrowed his optics. Suspicion? Confusion? Jazz didn't move, waiting for Prowl's next move.

Which was for his master unit to reach up behind Jazz's neck, holding firmly, to pull him close for a kiss. Jazz tightened his grip on the edge of the tub, putting one hand on Prowl's shoulder to steady himself, arching his back to better fit against Prowl, tilting as his master unit turned his helm for a better angle.

Prowl slid his hand up Jazz's pede, cupping the pelvic joint and guiding him to sit down straddling Prowl's lap. Jazz hesitated, trying to draw back and finding his chin seized, held as Prowl kept him locked in the kiss.

_Do you really want to stop?_ Prowl asked.

_Ain't that,_ Jazz replied, not fighting him. _Just don't wanna hurt you. Sure you can take my weight?_

_Of course,_ Prowl said, a touch of relief coloring his thought. _I was afraid you had changed your mind._

Jazz settled down completely, his pedes pressed wide against the edges of the tub. Prowl's hands explored his frame, finding the edges of his plating, running along the curve of his hood. His thumbs ran circles around Jazz's headlights, teasing the thin acrylic coverings as Jazz whimpered, turning away.

"I'm not the only well made bot here," Prowl whispered, taking advantage of Jazz's turned helm to lick at the soft cables exposed under his throat plating. "So shiny..."

"Y'know," Jazz murmured, tilting his helm back to give Prowl better access. "For awhile there, I almost didn't think you'd wanna interface."

"Too 'cold'?" Prowl said flatly. "Too 'serious'?"

Treading dangerous waters, that tone said to Jazz. Prowl had no doubt heard those insults before. And Jazz didn't think it wise to be overly truthful, not when he could give a different answer.

"You didn't do anything that first shift," Jazz said, hissing as Prowl tweaked the rim of his headlight. "After the ceremony—oh yeah, right there again..."

Prowl slipped his fingers under the access panel of Jazz's plating, toying with the interface ports hidden beneath. As expected, the data ports here were a little larger, designed for more intimate data sharing, and Jazz responded readily to having them touched, thrusting the bared metal sensors against Prowl's hand.

"The first few cycles were a shock," Prowl said, gently pinching steel and enjoying Jazz bucking against him. "I didn't even know if we could stand one another."

"Think we got that answered," Jazz said, leaning forward for another kiss as his cords grew hot, wordlessly asking for interface. His vocal processor warbled so that he replied on their internal comm line instead. _Whoever called you cold was crazy..._

I was built for maximum analysis and efficiency, Prowl said, smiling at Jazz's approval. _And I think you'll be best served with no interface or overload for another half breem. Just...this._

At the flutter of fingertips on his interface port, Jazz groaned and lay heavily on Prowl, fumbling blindly for an access panel on his master's own plating. The hot oil seemed to grow steadily hotter and he panted desperately, trying and failing to cool his overheated frame. The room blurred as his cortex shunted all priority energy away from other sensors to focus only on the same bits of his frame that Prowl had deigned to focus on.

_You bonding with me,_ Jazz sighed, _must've broken the sparks of lotsa hopeful Enforcers._

_Hardly,_ Prowl said, although he understood Jazz's underlying meaning. _I had a few offers while I was still living in the tower, lower status mechs trying to move up. They vanished after..._

Even through their internal communication, Prowl's voice became fainter. Painful memories he wanted no part in remembering, and Jazz was not so lost in desire that he couldn't tell when to change the tune.

_More for me,_ Jazz smiled as he deepened the kiss. _C'mon, Prowler, give it to me, huh?_

Prowl's hands stilled. _Prowler?_

As he froze, Jazz took the opportunity to lean forward, arching his back so he could loom over his master. Prowl wasn't so big that Jazz couldn't climb up, pressing their hoods together, enjoying the feel of metal rolling against metal. When Prowl began moving again, lightly running up his sides to trace the shape of his doorwings, Jazz whimpered as Prowl accessed his most delicate sensors.

"Please, Prowl..."

Wordlessly, Prowl opened his plating, revealing the matching plug to Jazz's interface port. He had to stop Jazz before the smaller mech could join their cables too quickly, instead forcing him to gently ease down on the connectors. Jazz squirmed as he recognized that Prowl's interface prongs were too large for him, giving his adaptive slots time to adjust and expand.

It would have been painful if not for the hot oil slicking metal against metal and easing the slide of their components. Jazz bit his lip, reaching down to try to feel the prongs. He was already at maximum—if Prowl had been a millimeter larger, they would've had to resort to adapter cords. Pressure built up, increased by the oil trapped inside his plating, driving on Jazz's insistent subroutines until they finally connected and locked together.

The satisfying fullness of those prongs clicking home, filling him as if they'd been designed for his data slots alone, rocked his processor. A cry escaped Jazz, startling him, and he flushed coolant across his heating faceplate. It did little to help. A warning flashed across his visor—frame core abnormally hot—and he absently flicked off his status updates.

Unfolding inside them, dormant interfacing protocols came online, triggered by their activated hardware. Data rushed by, and Prowl saw new sides of Jazz—the deep sense of betrayal against his creators, the even deeper need to create new melodies and rhythms, and the confining walls of this trap that had been closed around him, boxing him in until he thought he'd scream. Jazz gave voice to his frustration, murmuring snatches of songs that Prowl recognized from before, "coming home" and "you're my home" between deep vents.

And what did Jazz see, Prowl wondered. A mech hiding inside Enforcer regulations, too stupidly obedient to his creators to deny them anything? Prowl couldn't begrudge Jazz the firewall blocking off some of his cortex. Prowl had his own firewall guarding his own more vulnerable feelings.

The overload came, their internal sensors stressing and shutting down protectively, and Jazz finally fell silent, his mouth open in a silent cry. Prowl grit his denta, not used to the numbness in his frame, and slowly gave himself over to the sense of his frame tensing, then relaxing utterly with a deep sigh.

Left venting and shaky, Prowl took a long klik to let his inner processes reset and come back to full capacity. He turned his helm to gaze at Jazz who'd collapsed beside him, resting on Prowl's shoulder.

The smaller mech lay still, but his engines struggled to cool down in what had to be oppressive heat. Without jostling him, Prowl reached over the tub side to the control panel and lowered the temperature a few degrees. Jazz said he was all right, but there was no need to take risks.

He looked back at his peripheral. Smaller, quiet now, Jazz looked like he was on the verge of recharge. Prowl frowned, then ran his fingertip over Jazz's visor, feeling the edge of the shaped crystal. Jazz was not the only bot he knew with such a distinct visor, a similar frame...

"You wouldn't lie to me," he mused, thinking back on the marriage ceremony, how Jazz was not completely opened to him.

Even during this, a part of Jazz's cortex had not been shared. Neither had Prowl, keeping his own cortex neatly partitioned.

"Mm," Jazz mumbled, not moving but aware. "Relax, Prowl. I meant it...I wanted to interface. And Primus, what an interface..."

Prowl didn't correct him. Instead he made a note to take Jazz into the station on the next shift. The scare with the smaller mech tumbling into hot oil had made him aware that he did not have Jazz's precise technical specifications on file. Ratchet could examine Jazz and assuage Prowl's worries.

And if that examination turned up anything else...

Prowl held Jazz close, petting his helm and listening to his engine hum contentedly.

Prowl would deal with any revelations if they came.


	15. Prowl Hopes He's Wrong

After recharging together in the berth, Jazz found himself following at Prowl's rear tire, keeping even with him as they rolled out of the tower and onto the road. He curiously pinged his master unit, keeping one optic on the road as he watched Prowl for any sign that his frame might start shuddering.

_You sure you up to driving?_ Jazz nudged. _You weren't feeling so hot not too long ago._

_I managed to drive back from the Gourmant tower,_ Prowl said. _I can make it to the station. Ratchet won't be too happy about it, but then he never is._

_Am I gonna finally meet the bossy medibot?_ Jazz said.

Prowl pinged back a positive and continued driving, taking them along the off-ramp that curved over the city lights glittering below.

Jazz vented in the sweet scent of pavement and ozone as the air coursed over his frame, as the asphalt blurred beneath him. Much as he longed to break past the speed limit and blaze past all the other vehicons on the road, he found the steady hum of riding next to Prowl pleasant in itself. Struck by a whim, he wrapped up his enjoyment in rolling beside him and sent it as a data packet.

Prowl didn't respond at first, and Jazz wondered if he shouldn't have sent it. And then Prowl sent his own packet. Jazz hesitated a nanoklik before opening it.

Surprised joy. And an admonishment that data transfer was a distraction from driving.

Jazz laughed, popped a low wheelie and obediently ducked back to Prowl's rear window as his master's engine revved a warning.

_Obey the traffic laws!_ Prowl said, more in exasperation than anger.

_Yes sir, absolutely sir, gotcha sir,_ Jazz said, matching Prowl's speed. _Won't happen again, sir._

Prowl clamped down on his irritation, relieved when they reached the station. As Prowl transformed onto the sidewalk, Jazz came up on his pedes with him, hands behind his back, leaning forward to see Prowl's face.

"Behave," Prowl said, pointing a finger at him.

Jazz pouted, but he smiled right after. "Yes, Prowl."

Scanning his palmprint, Prowl opened the door and let Jazz in first, nodding to the security guards on duty. He watched Jazz curiously glance over the station again, and his peripheral smiled in greeting when he spotted Bluestreak and Airazor.

Prowl felt his spark clench. Jazz got along so easily with everyone here. He fit so neatly into Prowl's life. If Jazz was more than just a singer...

Prowl's processors weren't often wrong. He hoped this time that they were.

Putting his hand on the back of Jazz's neck, Prowl steered him away from the Enforcers and down a new hallway. Several bots sat in the rows of seats along the wall, all of them shifting in their chairs as if trying to find a position that didn't hurt. Jazz stilled, putting his engine into a lower, quieter gear.

_What is this place?_ Jazz asked, leaning back against Prowl's side. _How come everyone's all banged up?_

_It's the medibot's office,_ Prowl said, looking at the mechs around them. _Although it normally isn't this full. Here, sit down by the door while I go find Ratchet. We may have to wait a few orn._

Jazz vented, but he didn't argue. Medibot visits always seemed to take a whole shift, and he pulled a datapad from his subspace, starting up a simple driving game, speeding a little car across platforms and gathering energon bits to keep going longer.

Two levels later, he looked up. Prowl was nowhere to be found. The mechs around him looked more interested in staring at a spot on the wall and pretending that staying still would make the pain go away. Jazz glanced up and down the hall, tapping the edge of his datapad, and broadcast a ping to his master unit. A single ping came back, reassuring him that he wasn't alone but not explaining beyond that. Jazz fidgeted and wondered why Prowl wasn't talking to him.

"Excuse me, but are you Jazz?"

A small voice murmured beside him, soft so that it didn't bother the mechs around them. Jazz turned and found a red and white bot holding a datapad, watching him with wide, blue eyes over an angled faceplate.

"That'd be me," Jazz said, tucking his game into his subspace.

"Come with me, please." The bot turned slightly to give Jazz room to walk by. "My office is around the corner this way."

"Um..." Jazz looked down the hall again, squirming when he didn't see Prowl. "My master unit left me here—I dunno that I should leave."

"Oh!" The bot stopped and rubbed the back of his helm. "Sorry. I should've—I'm First Aid. Commander Prowl has you down for a schematics check and systems calibration. He'll probably join us once Ratchet is done with him."

Jazz reset his optics, feeling his internals tighten. His faint smile faded further.

"Schematics..." he echoed, standing slowly and following the medibot's gesture.

"It won't hurt," First Aid assured him. "It's just a routine check."

First Aid's office held a medical berth sized for mechs only a little bigger than Jazz, with a large monitor above it and steps along the side for cassettes and minibots. Jazz watched First Aid close the door behind himself, and then sat down on the edge of the berth. Numerous tools and gadgets lined the walls, and he spotted several posters on the ceiling instructing patients to remember _seal away rust decay_ and _proper maintainence prevents poor performance_.

"You said Prowl wants it done?" Jazz said, watching First Aid spread out his diagnostic kit, three tools he didn't recognize and a medical-grade datapad. "Was...was he angry or...?"

"No, not at all," First Aid said quickly. "It really is just a routine check. I usually perform them for all the Enforcers who gain peripherals. I was a little surprised that he didn't already have the schematics for you. Most mechs have them done to check compatibility."

"Uh, our compatibility didn't really matter," Jazz said, continuing as First Aid tilted his helm. "We're tower mechs. It was a—"

"A tower match?" First Aid said with widening optics. "You mean that really happens? I'd heard about it, but I've never actual seen a tower bonding before. So...there was no check up? No exchange of schematics or software or even basic hardline linkups?"

"Mech," Jazz said, looking askance at the floor, "we didn't even meet each other until the ceremony. We're, uh, not the highest up in our towers."

"..wow."

First Aid thought about that for a klik, considering how difficult Prowl could be even just to his medibots, and he reached out and put his hand on Jazz's shoulder, squeezing his tire gently.

"I've seen some really incompatible bots get bonded, and some of them grew more and more compatible over time. There's a good chance."

Despite his vents coming a little faster and the coolant chilling his systems, Jazz chuckled.

"No worries about that. Prowler...he's good. To me."

First Aid didn't have a face plate to smile, but his optics brightened and he nodded once.

"I'm glad. For both of you. Now," he tapped the port covering on Jazz's throat, "if you could unlock it, please, I'll begin the download and examination."

"Sure."

Jazz unsealed the covering, allowing it to flip up. First Aid plugged in a connector cable and began working on his datapad, supervising the flow of data and occasionally glancing at the monitor overhead.

Jazz glanced over his shoulder, watching the numbers flash as a hazy image of his internal components began to take shape. His spark chamber with all his systems flowing out of it like a web, then his more sensitive systems like his sensors, his ventilation and energon processing. He lowered his helm and gripped the edge of the berth. If it didn't stop running soon—

"What on Cybertron is that?"


	16. It's All Dark and Silent If I Ain't Got You

First Aid stared at the monitor, then expanded the view on his datapad. "Is that a splice?"

Jazz winced. "It's a sonic enhancement."

"'Enhancement'?" First Aid vented hard, scrolling through the schematic as the details took form. "That's what you call it? These connections—it's spliced right through your cortex and into your armor. There's no way you were sparked with these ports. Primus—it's a total hack job."

"I had to get it done," Jazz said, looking up and grabbing First Aid's hand. "It was tower politics—they were gonna deactivate me to get at my creator. He wasn't so high up then—if I couldn't solo—"

"'Solo'?" First Aid echoed. "Wait, that's right. Bluestreak mentioned you're from one of the musician chambers."

Encouraged that the medibot was listening and not immediately calling Prowl, Jazz nodded and pressed on, feigning the poor, desperate mech act and recounting the half-truth that Wheeljack had helped him work out. And First Aid had said he was friends with Bluestreak? First Aid might be young, too. Young and willing to believe the more sensational rumors about tower life.

"I was just a chorus mech at the time," Jazz said. "Twelfth chair. There was no way I could get a solo gig like that—soloists are second chair at least, and I didn't have nothing to set me apart. They were gonna test me, see how good I was, and I needed an edge or else I was getting shipped straight to the smelter, and...and I knew it was illegal, but I know this mech—"

First Aid smacked his datapad on the berth, staring at a spot on the wall. "Primus, it's always 'I knew this mech' or 'it was just a little improvement' and then your systems are shorting out."

"No, it ain't like that," Jazz insisted. "He's my friend, he's real good, and I couldn't go to a legit bot 'cause they'd be required to report anything I had done and...the enhancement made me sound better. Enough to get me to fifth chair, and in the end, that's all I needed."

First Aid didn't say anything, and in the awkward pause, Jazz felt himself teetering on the brink.

"Please," Jazz said. "If anyone finds out..."

First Aid held silent for several kliks, processing what Jazz had told him. He stared at his datapad, going over the regulations and protocols, then met Jazz's look.

"Let me see them," he said softly.

Venting in, Jazz hesitated, then nodded once. The armored plates of his shoulders drew back, revealing the extra speakers Wheeljack had retrofitted into his system. To the naked optic, there was nothing special about them, but First Aid's diagnostic could tell how much power he could reroute. Though there was a chance Jazz could call it fine tuning...

"Can I hear them?" First Aid asked, although it wasn't a question.

"It...they only enhance my voice," Jazz said. "It'd be hard to tell if you ain't a chamber elder."

"Even so," First Aid said firmly. "Sing something. It doesn't have to be very long. I want to make sure that's all they can do."

"O-okay," Jazz said, feigning nervousness but with a sense of cautious relief. The medibot was willing to believe him. He just had to sell this.

The office became an impromptu stage for an audience of one. Jazz closed his optics, imagining the lights were off, only his visor glowing in the darkness. Like sitting under a stage listening to the songs, and he was quietly singing with them, adding his voice to an intimate concert. Something mournful. Something that would help quiet his spark pulsing too hard in his chamber.

"Lights on in a lonely street," he started, "river of mercury that won't hold beneath my pedes, a thousand engines rumbling, but it's true...it's all dark and silent if I ain't got you."

Was First Aid evaluating the difference in his voice with the speakers adding a touch of reverb, fine tuning his vocal processors? The medibot didn't tell him to stop, so he sang the next verse.

"An empty casing, a missing spark, the way to you seems so impossibly far. A thousand engines between us, but it's true it's all dark and silent if I ain't got you."

He let the last note of the verse draw out and dwindle to nothing. His hands tightened on the berth. First Aid stood looking at his datapad, checking the monitor above him... If First Aid said he would snitch to Prowl, Jazz would have to fight his way out of a station full of Enforcers. If First Aid said he'd cover for him, Jazz got to go home with Prowl. And if First Aid didn't say anything soon, Jazz would start shaking with the tension.

"I'm making a note about your repairs to the sonic elements," First Aid said at last. "I have to record it honestly, but it's a small note that no one but another medibot will ever see, and it'll just be like any other repair notation. Like the ones to your optics and visor."

Jazz's lips parted. "How'd you...?"

"Medibot magic," First Aid said. "And you've got mild plate build up around your visor settings. That means you've been damaged and healed naturally. Are they recent?"

Jazz ducked his helm. "Nah...my creator just has a nasty temper sometimes, is all."

Again the friendly hand on his shoulder, understanding and sympathetic. "I'm gonna give you a prescription for excess plate remover and a decalcifier—you've got some buildups around your coolant lines. And the meds taste terrible, so I'm making sure Prowl gets the note that you have to take them, okay?"

Jazz ended the visit backing out of the office, nodding enthusiastically to everything First Aid said, receiving the prescriptions on his own datapad and promising to tell Prowl and take his meds. Just before he left, against his better judgment, he put his arms around First Aid in a hug.

"It's okay," First Aid said, patting his helm. "Patient doctor privilege."

"Thank you regardless," Jazz said. "You don't know how much I appreciate it."

"I'm glad you're happy," First Aid chuckled. "I don't think you want to wait in the hall again. Why don't you go sit outside Prowl's office? It's going to be a little longer before Ratchet's done with him."

"Sounds like a good idea," Jazz said, smiling and giving him a little salute. "I'll see you, 'Aid. You're one good bot."


	17. Dealing with Ratchet

A joor later when Prowl left Ratchet's office, the Enforcer stoically kept his helm high even as Ratchet's voice followed him out. The mechs in the hallway all looked up, optics wide, as the medic shouted after him. They'd all heard of the medibot's legendary fits, but they'd never met a mech who could let the indignant rage wash off of him.

"If I see you in here one more time before the orn's up," Ratchet threatened, leaning out of his door, "I swear I'll take your pedes and give 'em to your peripheral for safe keeping! You hear me?"

Prowl waved once without turning. The cursing that followed was cut off as Ratchet snarled and barked at his next patient to get inside. Although Prowl gave no sign of relief, his doorwings dropped and relaxed. Ratchet made no idle threats. If he came back injured again, Jazz would have to carry him to the oil bath.

Jazz... Prowl considered it a good sign that he hadn't been frantically pinged by First Aid, that the hall hadn't filled with Enforcers drawing beads on Jazz's spark chamber. He noticed that he did have a message from First Aid in his databanks, but since it wasn't marked urgent, he hadn't registered its arrival during Ratchet's harangue.

_As requested, Jazz's full schematics, as well as a prescription for decalcifiers and excess plate remover. As they taste unpleasant, please ensure Jazz's compliance in taking them._ Prowl gave a long vent as read the message. Nothing strange. Nothing unusual. Nothing weaponized.

His computer had been wrong. False positive. A cautionary warning about relying on circumstantial evidence in the absence of anything physical and quantifiable.

He found Jazz sitting on the bench outside of his office, listening and nodding as Bluestreak rambled on and on. Prowl blinked. Few mechs would converse with his corporal, finding it impossible to get a word in edgewise. Airazor, for all her raging at the rest of the office, would listen. Prowl listened. And now it looked like Jazz would find time for Bluestreak as well.

"—and that's when Airazor came swooping in and took the mech's helm off," Bluestreak said, in the middle of explaining a recent Enforcer action. "She's my spotter—she usually keeps them from getting close so I only have to worry about taking my shots, but there were just so many mechs that one came right up on my pedes."

"She got him right behind you?" Jazz echoed. "Didn't that freak you out?"

Bluestreak shook his head with a wide smile. "Oh no, I trust her completely. I have to—otherwise it'd be way too hard to ignore everything around me while I'm calculating the angle. Besides, like I said, I'm usually too far away to worry about it. It's just this time there really were too many mechs around us. We didn't expect the battle to get that big, no one did."

"Who was fighting?" Jazz asked. "I mean, was it just one gang or what?"

"Two of 'em," Bluestreak said, "but they weren't really gangs since they're tower fights—well, I mean we know that they're tower fights but they're hired guns so we can't pin anything on the towers as usual."

Prowl came closer, coming to rest beside Jazz, putting his hand on his peripheral's tire even as he gave Jazz a ping to let him know he was there. Jazz turned too fast, gazing up into Prowl's optics for several kliks and reading his expression. Prowl wasn't sure what Jazz was looking for, but after a moment, his peripheral smiled in relief and put his hand on Prowl's, pinging their internal communication.

_Everything okay, bossmech?_

_I believe so, _Prowl replied._ First Aid sent me your schematics and two prescriptions. You appear sound out._

Jazz's smile turned into a broad grin. _Yeah, s'what he said. I don't really have to take those meds, right? That's just a cautionary thing._

Prowl's lips quirked into a half smile. _You will take them at their prescribed time. No arguments._

_Aww..._ Jazz tilted his helm, smiling up under his visor.

Before this bonding, Prowl would have thought that a willful, resistant peripheral would be irritating, a constant distraction that required monitoring and a short leash. And no doubt that's what both of their creators had expected from this match. But such a little rebellion, playful and flirtatious, didn't bother his sense of order. A nudge back into line and swift submission satisfied Prowl's spark in a way that mindless obedience would not.

"Now what was this about a tower fight?" Prowl asked as he faced his corporal. "I heard nothing about it."

"Oh, um...uh..." Bluestreak hunched down, tapping his fingertips. "I don't think I'm allowed to talk about it."

Prowl stiffened and drew himself up. "What?"

"Ratchet ordered me to keep quiet," Bluestreak squeaked. "He was checking my doorwing calibration and you know how scary he is even if he wasn't handling such sensitive equipment! I said yes before he finished asking."

Prowl narrowed his optics, his processors suddenly dumping most of his background computations to focus fully on this new question. For Ratchet to block information from him so blatantly—

His datapad beeped. Surprised, Prowl flipped it open and tapped the blinking message marked urgent.

_From: Chief Medical Officer Ratchet_  
_To: Squad Commander Prowl_  
_Subject: This is a reminder that you are to remain off active duty for the next thirty shifts and to only return to light desk duty afterward. As per protocol, your caseload will fall to your next in command Lieutenant Airazor. Maintain radio silence. Do not visit your office. And if I catch you in this station for any reason before then, I will isolate your helm and spark chamber in my desk until your self-repair functions complete so I don't have to waste time patching up your thankless aft yet again._

Prowl stared at the message for a klik, then tossed his datapad back into subspace without reply.

"Understood," he said to Bluestreak, patting his helm lightly. "You are correct."

The younger Enforcer's wince turned into a relieved vent.

"Airazor is in charge until I return," Prowl said, casting a longing look at his office. There were file drives on his desk waiting for him, if only he could go in and scoop them up. He could see the drives through the clear crystal of his door...

"Please tell Airazor to send all files back to their respective caseworkers. I will be out for thirty shifts." Letting his hand fall from Bluestreak's helm, he started to walk by, then turned and looked over his shoulder. "You have my comm signal if you need anything."

Bluestreak's optics brightened further. "Sure thing, Commander, and make sure you get plenty of rest 'cause I don't think this tower fighting is gonna stop any time soon and I'd feel a lot better if you were here helping us plan before anything really bad happened."

"I will rest," Prowl promised. "Jazz? With me."


	18. Ratchet's Revenge

After fist bumping Bluestreak, which first required holding the younger mech's hand and showing him how to fist bump, Jazz caught up to his master unit, transforming onto the road behind him.

_First Aid's real nice,_ Jazz said. _He's young, ain't he?_

_Yes, not even a vorn yet,_ Prowl said. _We do not often take such young mechs, but Ratchet insisted._

_I'm kinda sad I didn't get to meet this Ratchet,_ Jazz said. _Bluestreak made him sound all scary. He can't be that bad, right?_

_Ratchet is...efficient,_ Prowl answered. _Moreso than we would like. Most of the Enforcers prefer First Aid's treatment. It may be for the best that you did not meet Ratchet._

_I guess 'cause it was so busy._ Jazz accelerated, edging closer to Prowl's bumper. _Is it always so busy? Do Enforcers get hurt a lot?_

_Keep to a safe distance,_ Prowl reminded him. _You are correct. The medbay isn't usually so crowded._

_Huh._ Jazz paused. _You ever get hurt?_

_You know I have been,_ Prowl said, surprised. _You've been taking care of me after Meister's attack._

_Uh, not like that,_ Jazz said, flinching at the thought. _I mean like on the job. Before Meister. Like, is getting hurt normal for you?_

As they came off the highway onto the overpass, their respective towers loomed over them. Although Jazz's chamber lay several miles off, the tall blue spire stood out against the silver and gray towers around it. Closer, House Gourmant glowed white, throwing light across the highway as if it was watching them. Jazz felt better when they came off the main road and drove along the edge of the Gourmant estate, rolling back onto the dark roads lit only by gold streetlights.

_No, I normally do not suffer injuries, _Prowl said. _I believe I mentioned before that I examine cold case files and compile probabilities. All investigation is usually done at my desk.___

They came up to the gate and transformed as Prowl transmitted the access code. As the gates swung open, he took a step in—

—then gasped as his pede buckled at the joint. His doorwings extended out in a futile effort to counter balance, and his hand stretched out for anything to grab.

Jazz came up under his arm, planting himself as Prowl leaned on him.

"Gotcha, bossmech," Jazz said, standing still until Prowl stopped wobbling. "You okay?"

Prowl winced. His gyros spun wildly, his cortex overclocked as his sensors tried to compensate. He stared at a single spot on the pavement until the ground stopped rolling under his pedes. With a long vent, he curled his arm, holding Jazz closer.

"It is nothing serious," he grumbled. "I've overstressed my systems. Gyros are out of synch and it's overclocking my processors."

"Berth and energon it is," Jazz said. "In that order. Think you can walk it?"

"I think so, yes."

But Prowl didn't try to stand on his own, and he waited for Jazz to take a step before trusting himself to move. Jazz's shorter frame made balancing difficult as his peripheral tried to find places for his hands. Ultimately Jazz settled on holding Prowl's arm on his shoulders, his other hand firm against Prowl's midsection.

"We'll go nice an' slow," Jazz said, taking another step. "'less you wanna try rolling in? I think the stairs're wide enough for your tires."

Prowl tightened his hold on his peripheral in case Jazz even thought of moving away. "No. I don't think transforming again would be wise."

"Gotcha." Jazz nodded, and he waited for Prowl to loosen his grip before resuming their walk.

Prowl transmitted the access codes to let them in the tower, and the crystal chandelier cast harsh light through the main chamber. With a hissed intake, Prowl flinched and shut his optics tight.

"Too bright?" Jazz asked, already turning the lights down a soft glow.

"My sensors are straining to stabilize themselves," Prowl vented, "and I cannot cut the flow of datapackets without deactivating the majority of my sensors."

"Doorwings on the fritz, huh?" Jazz paused and craned his helm, trying to see Prowl's optics. His master, however, didn't move, his faceplate tightly drawn in concentration. "So deactivate 'em maybe?"

They started up the steps, Jazz first, then Prowl, both pedes on each stair before moving to the next. Thinking to hold onto the railing, Jazz tried to move his hand only for Prowl to tighten his grip, refusing to let go. With a reassuring squeeze, Jazz gently took his hand away and reached out until he felt his fingers curl around the steel edge that would guide them up to his master's berth.

"Impossible," Prowl said, shaking his head and immediately regretting the movement, gritting his denta. "I would be blind—attempting the climb that way would lead to a ninety percent chance of us falling."

"Well, I wouldn't call it blind exactly," Jazz said, "turning 'em off. You never deactivate your doorwings?"

"Never."

Jazz whistled softly. "Not even when you were chasing Meister down the highway?"

"I couldn't," Prowl said. "At that speed, I needed every calculation on wind velocity and road conditions so I wouldn't spin out."

Unlike Jazz, who'd shut down most of his doorwing sensor suite to let feeling and touch steer him down the highway. What a thrill, to lean into hard curves with his tires clinging to each slippery patch and pitted crack in the pavement, cold wind screaming across his hood, and the streetlights flying by so fast that he seemed to outrun their glow, the road lit only by his headlights and the headlights of the single Enforcer keeping pace with him. And then that sweet catch as Prowl crashed into his arms...

Prowl whispered his name, then whispered louder when he didn't answer.

"Sorry," Jazz said quickly. "Mind wandered off. You okay?"

"Talk," Prowl said, his vents short. "Please."

They'd reached the landing, and Jazz turned Prowl in a slow arc toward his master's room.

"Sure, I can talk," Jazz said, and he smiled as the berth came into view, just within reach down the hall. "My creator used to hate it when I talked. Said I could go a mile a minute. Wonder what he'd think of Bluestreak. That little 'bot can keep going without taking a vent. Bet he keeps your bosses busy so they don't bother ya."

A faint smile touched Prowl's faceplate. "Perhaps."

"Sneaky 'bot," Jazz chuckled. "Anyway, Metronome had me playing chrys-guitar and singing in the chorus. I guess you kinda figured I like to sing, but if you thought watching those concerts was boring, you ain't never been playing in one. 'Least the audience can fidget an' look around. If you're in the show, you gotta stand straight and look ahead. And you can't do anything behind the visor. He caught me once doing a crossword during rehearsal, and damned if he didn't near knock out my optics."

Prowl didn't reply, but Jazz felt his hand tighten around his waist, then relax.

They made it to the master chamber by then. Jazz angled himself so that Prowl could reach down and put his hand on the berth, slowly easing himself down to a sit. Both of them vented deeply, and as Prowl lowered his helm, Jazz put his hands on Prowl's shoulders, making sure he was steady.

"I'ma go get us some cubes," Jazz said. "You gonna be okay waiting on me?"

Prowl nodded once. I will be fine. Please hurry.

"Gotcha, bossmech."

By the time Jazz went downstairs, retrieved a pair of energon cubes and returned, Prowl had managed to pull his pedes up onto the berth. His optics half shut, Prowl tilted his helm enough to see Jazz coming down the hall.

His peripheral didn't seem tired or worn out. Unlike the nervous air he'd had before, Jazz now walked with a spring in his step, as if all his worries had slipped off his shoulders. He even hummed, balancing the two cubes in one hand, murmuring to himself words of a song he hadn't introduced to Prowl yet.

_My apologies—I didn't realize you were low as well,_ Prowl said, too tired to speak out loud. 

"Huh?" Jazz sat beside him, setting the cubes down. "Oh, 'cause I got two? Nah, these are both yours. Figure you're running on fumes since you're cutting out non-essential functions."

_True,_ Prowl conceded, taking the first cube and drinking slowly. _Ratchet fully engaged my self-repair programs. I did not realize how much energy that would require._

"Damn, that's mean," Jazz said. "Wheeljack did that to me once. I was laying down when he started, though."

_Due to your creator?_ Prowl finished the first cube and picked up the second, taking that one a sip at a time. 

"Nah, not that time," Jazz said. He shrugged. "I didn't drive so good during my first vorn. Crashed a couple times. Metronome just smacked me around during rehearsals. I'm the one that put my frame through a wall."

Prowl imagined his sensitive doorwings scraping cold steel and denting, even crumpling. He couldn't hide his wince, so he covered it by finishing the energon cube. Jazz took it and set it aside, then put his hands around Prowl's.

_Your Wheeljack..._ Prowl sat straighter, lifting his wings as the energon began to flow through him again. "He is a good friend."

"Yeah." Jazz vented. "He's a little like First Aid, real wide opticked and nice."

"Which reminds me," Prowl said, "you will need to go purchase your prescriptions."

"Aww..." Jazz turned Prowl's hand over, rubbing the soft cords between the armor plating. "Lemme stay 'till you're feeling better?"

"Jazz—" Prowl started.

"I promise I'll pick 'em up and take 'em, no arguing," Jazz said quickly. "I was just yanking yer chain before. But I don't wanna go and leave you like this."

After a long moment, simply staring at his peripheral, Prowl vented and nodded once.

"That would be...sufficient." Prowl closed his optics, settling back with his doorwings comfortably out of the way. "Would you continue to talk, please?"

With a growing smile, Jazz patted Prowl's shoulder, then resumed speaking, filling up the room as he explained music theory and synthesized sound versus ancient instruments, knowing that Prowl was drowsing through most of it.


	19. A beat Jazz don't like dancing to

Another shift passed. Jazz lay on the berth, his helm cushioned on Prowl's shoulder. It was a surprisingly comfortable position, fit snug against Prowl's hood, pedes shifting into place with his master unit's. The berth wasn't built for two, but Jazz curled up so neatly with Prowl that he didn't feel scrunched.

Prowl sat with one arm around Jazz, careful of his flared wings, reading on his datapad. After several mi,utes of silence, Jazz glanced up, then craned his neck, trying to see the screen.

"What'cha reading, bossmech?"

Prowl tilted the screen to show him a still shot of security footage, time stamped several decacycles ago. The grainy video held the vague outline of a familiar frame with a glowing visor.

"Thought you said you weren't s'posed to work," Jazz said.

"Warpath owes me several favors," Prowl said. "And he is in charge of, among other things, department filing."

"Huh." Jazz chuckled. "So when you told your femme to send all those files back..."

"Airazor gave them to Warpath." Prowl smiled.

"Ratchet won't find out?"

"These were sent as a compressed subpacket in Warpath's response acknowledging my thirty shifts off."

Prowl flipped through several images and played a few low-resolution video clips, speeding across older files, only slowing if he recognized or suspected the perpetrator.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" Jazz asked.

"I am concerned about being cut out of the loop on the tower fighting," Prowl said, not breaking from his work. "But more to the point, I am examining older, unsolved thefts. I believe that Meister is more than an opportunistic thief. His theft of the sheet music in the Rotunda Profundis was too precise."

"Um," Jazz murmured, "thought you said he got chased by every Enforcer, drone and tower security in the area."

"Yes!" Prowl nodded quickly, surprising Jazz with his agreement. "Exactly! He eluded three different security forces using the stage and hidden exits. He must have insider information if he isn't a tower mech himself. On that probability, I have narrowed my focus to several cold cases of tower thefts and I believe I have made some headway."

Thefts going back decacycles? Jazz did a quick memory check in his cortex. He'd always been disguised as Meister, right? Of course. But it didn't hurt to make sure.

"How many files you look at usually?" Jazz asked. "'Cause this was all what was on your desk, right?"

"Yes," Prowl said. "I normally examine three hundred cases each week, but Warpath sent me some older files that had relevant tags. Now look at this one..."

Jazz followed his finger across the datapad, boggling as Prowl brought up several pictures at once. He didn't even see Meister in every image.

"After his break-in at House Gourmant," Prowl explained, "I analyzed his approach style as he made his way to my previous chambers."

"'Approach style'?" Jazz said.

"Every criminal has their own modus operendi," Prowl said. "Some mechs power through with a smash and grab, and other mechs try to talk their way in and out. Meister, however, nearly avoids detection through masterful avoidance of cameras and guards." He tapped each still-shot in turn. "Look here...you can barely see his audio horn as he brushed against the edge of the camera. And this image shows the first burst of his sonic attack. You can just make him out at the edge of the frame."

Bit by bit, Jazz watched as he appeared—shadowy and indistinct, true—but all of this evidence gathered together in one collage of clues and hints made him tense and bury his faceplate against Prowl's shoulder. His spark beat a little faster. Prowl had done all this in just a few orn, while injured and under strain.

"Tired?" Prowl asked.

Jazz shrugged once, closing his optics. "Bossmech...what you gonna do if you really catch him?"

Prowl paused for a long moment, petting Jazz's audio horns idly. Prowl's vents came even and soft, and the energon fueling his system rushed through his cables nearly inaudibly. Jazz listened to the steady beat and let his own slaved spark fall into rhythm.

"If I could put the stasis cuffs on him safely," Prowl started, sounding out the idea, "I would want to interrogate him thoroughly. Question his interest in me. As far as I have seen, he is only guilty of theft, trespassing, reckless endangerment...his injury to me is his worst offense. I want to know who is controlling him."

"'Controlling him'?" Jazz echoed.

"A master thief does not risk capture so cavalierly with joyriding," Prowl said. "But there's no rhyme or reason to these break-ins. Some are thefts, but some are just...pointless. There is a grand scheme to this and I am not convinced he is in control of it."

"But he still gets smelted, right?" Jazz asked. "I mean, he did blast you a good one."

"Assault and theft are not smelting violations," Prowl said firmly. "Other Enforcers may try to harm him for the end of his racing stunt, but fines and imprisonment for some time would suffice. If there are extenuating circumstances, even simple parole may be considered."

"Mm."

Jazz didn't let himself think about that. He indulged for awhile in resting beside Prowl, the hand rubbing the base of his horns with growing practice, but at last he fidgeted and sat up, leaning over the side of the berth.

"Energon, boss?"

"Please. And Bluestreak sent over a tray of spun mercury treats. Bring two, please." Prowl's smile showed he wanted to share, and Jazz managed a little smile of his own as he left the room.

He took the stairs slowly, keeping his hand on the rail. The first floor was dark, but he didn't touch the lights. His steps echoed in the empty hall, and even though the main room was tiny compared to most towers, he felt as small and powerless here as in the vast galleries of his creator's chambers.

At least in the small galley to the side, the echoes stopped. The simple functionality of the energon dispensing units and the varied sizes of cubes let him focus on pouring two servings, placing them aside as he went to the refrigeration unit and withdraw the mercury treats.

_Jazz—report._

A high pitched frequency turned on in his cortex, impossible to turn off from his side. The tray dropped, clattering on the floor. Jazz winced and gathered it back up quickly, sliding the treats back into place.

_Metronome..._ He coughed once, looking over his shoulder to make sure he was alone even though no one could hear his internal communications. _I'm here. Hey, uh, this ain't the best time-_

_Report._ His creator's voice ran over his protest. _You are several orn late._

_Yeah, well, he was busy running down my schematics,_ Jazz said, and he let his ire color his tone. _Seems no one sent my revised schema' down to House Gourmant._

_Your own matter to resolve,_ Metronome said impassively. _You avoid the question. Did the virus upload or not?_

_...o'course,_ Jazz said. _Prowl downloaded it while slaving my systems during the ceremony—_

_I do not need the details,_ Metronome said. _What do the Enforcers know?_

_Prowl's knowledge is limited due to medical recharge for the next thirty shifts,_ Jazz started. 

_Get to the point._

_They know all y'alls 'gang warfare' just covering for tower infighting, but not which towers or why._

_Is that all?_

_'Til my master's signed off for active duty again._

_You will report in immediately when new information is available, without further prompting. Is that clear?_

_Sure thing, bossmech._ Jazz grimaced. 

__A flat, empty space followed as his creator considered his tone. Clearly it was not enough to warrant wasting time reprimanding him, and Metronome disconnected the signal._ _

__Jazz leaned against the wall, running his hand down his faceplate. He knew the balancing act would have to start soon, but a lifetime of Metronome's commands in his head couldn't prepare him for that shrill pitch bursting into his cortex. Jazz counted himself lucky that his creator couldn't tell he'd caged that virus behind the firewall Prowl had left to him._ _

__Prowl had no idea the mindless slavery he'd escaped by leaving Jazz that last bit of privacy._ _

__Jazz reset his optics a dozen times, tried to rub away the lingering ache in his helm, then gathered up the energon and treats and hurried upstairs._ _

__"Are you all right?" Prowl asked as Jazz entered. "You were awhile longer than usual."_ _

__With a reassuring grin, Jazz sat down beside him and leaned close, nuzzling his chevron. "Got too wrapped up in my own helm, Prowler."_ _

__"Something bad?" Prowl asked, setting the datapad down._ _

__Jazz shrugged and offered him a cube. "Just a lousy beat I don't wanna play to. Now, you gonna want the hot oil today or are we taking a break from you falling all over the place?"_ _


	20. Under the Visor

Toward the end of the shift, while Jazz lay against his hood, Prowl finally closed his investigation and set the datapad down. Rotating his shoulder, he winced at the stiffness in the joint. Holding his datapad up this whole time had taken most of his effort, and his repair functions were more concerned with sealing his hairline stress fractures than easing his swollen joints.

"Perhaps I should have taken another hot oil bath after all," Prowl murmured to himself.

He vented. He'd been so consumed by his investigation that he'd forgotten about Jazz's prescriptions. He tightened his arm around his peripheral and felt him curl a little closer across his headlight. Jazz had gone into a light defrag routine, drowsing as Prowl worked.

"Jazz," Prowl said, squeezing again so that the smaller mech roused out of his maintenance and blinked up at him. "You need to go to the pharmacist."

Making a face, Jazz stretched, flaring his wings out, then went limp against Prowl's side again. He muttered something that sounded vaguely insubordinate, shaking his helm once.

"Jazz..." Prowl lowered his helm, pressing his lips to his peripheral's horn. "Wake up."

"Mm." Jazz whined again, then leaned up enough to see Prowl's optics. Weariness made his visor flicker. "I don't wanna."

Despite the mild protest, Prowl smiled. "You will go to the pharmacy and retrieve your prescriptions. I would also like you to purchase a slow release synth-oil."

"'Slow release...'" Jazz frowned. "You need a synth-oil capsule?"

"I think a full treatment is advisable," Prowl said. "I don't want you to have to carry me back and forth to the washracks, and my repair functions have not prioritized my mobility."

"Don't mind helping ya to the bath," Jazz said, but he dutifully climbed off of the berth and stretched again. "Okay, I'll head out. Anything else I need to get?"

"I will authorize you a hundred credits from my main account," Prowl said. "Your prescription should not go over fifty and generic synths should be less than twenty. Whatever you have left is yours to spend as you wish."

Jazz's doorwings lifted. He hadn't complained about being cut off from the tower funds, but the peripheral was completely dependent on his master unit. The offer of spending credits was a taste of freedom he hadn't realized he missed.

"Within reason," Prowl said, misinterpreting his look. "You will also stay out of trouble. No speeding or stunts on the road."

"I'll even stay in the same lane," Jazz said with a little wave, backing toward the door. "More or less."

"And come straight back!" Prowl called after him. "No overenergizing!"

Jazz sent an affirmative ping as he went down the stairs, rolling out the gate and onto the access road to the highway. True to his word, he stayed within the speed limit. If Prowl wanted to see his driving record later, Jazz would give him no reason to doubt how responsible his peripheral could be.

The thought of pleasing his master left a warmth in his spark that surprised him, and he slowed, drifting into the right lane. Of course he wanted to tear up the asphalt, blur by the mechs that thought they were the fastest things on the road. A pair of motorcycles roared by, a couple of femmes popping wheelies with each other. Jazz knew he could have passed them as if they were standing still, and yet...he obeyed Prowl's directions in letter and spirit.

_Because I'm his peripheral?_ Jazz wondered. _Peripheral programming? Or is it because he's Prowl, and I like seeing him smile?_

At the pharmacy, Prowl's estimates were correct and, with the medicines subspaced, Jazz rolled out with thirty credits to spend as he pleased.

And he stopped.

Thirty credits...was a problem.

If he was simply Prowl's peripheral, a Chamber misfit involved in nothing shadier than speeding and overenergizing, then he could have bought any number of things. A new paint job, a filligree design down his arm, even a fancy decal along his hood—something to make himself more pleasing to his master unit. But he didn't want to alter himself like that, not when Meister couldn't afford any identifying marks. Jazz might buy new strings for his guitar...but anything he bought could be taken away by his master at any time.

He hadn't seen Prowl angry. Annoyed or irate, yes, but Jazz didn't know how vindictive or cruel a bot his master could possibly be. If they were just friends, he would think that Prowl was a good-tempered bot and be satisfied with that, but in his tenuous position, he felt his vulnerability all too sharply.

If Prowl ever discovered...

If Prowl even suspected...

Jazz choked, forcing his engine to turn over.

Again, Jazz cursed his creator. Jazz had done so many things at Metronome's command. "The ultimate solo artist," Metronome had called him. "The ideal player," perfectly following the melody and moving to his conductor's beat. As Metronome dictated, Jazz performed.

Chamber Chorale suffered the theft of their most ancient reed flute, made of actual organic materials. Cerulean crystal chimes from the colony guild Five Fifths vanished during transport. House Trill discovered that the brass cylinders of their player boxes had been replaced with fakes only as sour notes erupted during a Temple performance. Rivals and upstarts, Chamber Harmonics brought them all in hand.

Sometimes their own antique instruments and sheet music, fully insured, vanished to allay suspicion, disappearing safely into their vaults. But Meister hadn't delivered the latest sheet music, hadn't even been told to steal it. Did Metronome not realize who had taken it? Or did he think Jazz was trying to rebel, however weakly? But Chamber Harmonic did not tolerate even weak rebellion.

If Prowl didn't throw him in prison, then Metronome might drag him back into the tower and lock the key.

Jazz keyed up a familiar address, pinging his friend as he turned and headed in a new direction.

_Hey, my mech, you out there?_

_Jazz?_ Wheeljack answered. _Don't tell me you're all banged up again. I don't think I have the spare parts right now._

_Primus be praised, I am in one piece today,_ Jazz said. _Just wanna buy a little upgrade off ya._

_Um, those sonics can't take another booster..._

_Nothing like that. It'll take less'n a shake of a glitchmouse tail, promise._

Half a joor later, the flash of headlights across the window alerted Prowl that his peripheral had come home. The gate swung open with a metallic creak, then shut again, and the downstairs door unlocked and opened. Then heavy steps as Jazz came up the stairs, his hand sliding softly on the railing.

"Yo, bossmech," Jazz murmured as he leaned around the door. "You still awake?"

"Yes." Prowl put his datapad down. "I wanted to stay up until you returned. I didn't think you would take quite this long."

Prowl's voice was mild enough that Jazz didn't do more than duck his head and smile as he sat beside him.

"Neither did I," Jazz said, putting his hand on Prowl's. "Sorry 'bout that. But I knew what I wanted and thirty credits was just enough to cover it."

"Oh?" Prowl watched as his peripheral brought several items from subspace, but all of it seemed to be Jazz's pills and his own synth-oil. "What did you buy?"

"A...well, kinda more of a repair job," Jazz said, and he found the floor suddenly interesting. "Remember I told ya Metronome liked to smack me around the optics? I just had basics in there 'cause, y'know, why bother getting good ones when they're just gonna get cracked again?"

Prowl reached out and squeezed Jazz's hand, listening.

"So I visited my buddy Wheeljack...and I got a half-decent set."

"For thirty credits?" Prowl scoffed. "That isn't suspicious at all."

"He gets parts cheap from reclamations," Jazz said quickly. "And he knows me. And...well. Yeah."

"Hm." Prowl stored that information away for later investigation. It wasn't uncommon for medibots to take surviving parts from smelted bots or working defects from manufacturers, but he wanted to be sure that any friends of Jazz were above board. "So...you had your optics replaced?"

Jazz nodded once. He touched the corner of his visor, unclasping the lock.

"You know," Jazz said, still staring at the floor, "I was kinda nervous about replacing 'em. I mean, watching the tools coming right at ya. I almost didn't do it."

"You're used to having your visor down all the time," Prowl noted.

Jazz's fingers hovered over the connectors.

"Prowl..."

"Yes?"

"If I do something wrong..." Jazz twisted. "Like, if I screw up..."

Prowl calculated. Ten percent chance that Jazz was planning something. Twelve percent that he'd already done something and it had blown up in his faceplate. And over seventy-five percent that Jazz was feeling his status as a peripheral. Wavering voice, unable to face him, risking Prowl's displeasure by using Wheeljack's services... Prowl bumped up his calculation three more percentage points, past the margin for error.

"I would never hurt you." Prowl tightened his hold on Jazz's shoulder. "I realize you have no real reason to trust me on this, but I have tried to make this...forced union easier on us both. You are my peripheral. That means you are part of my own systems. I will not see you come to any harm."

Jazz's returned smile was wan, strained under the pressures pushing down on Jazz's spark. But he unclasped his visor and turned toward his master.

Prowl's lips parted with a soft vent of surprise.

Crystalline acrylic, without any scuffs or warps, so clear that Prowl could see the tiny lenses inside the new components. The tiniest gears and rods, all made of polished steel, shifted a dozen times as the optics refocused. Data flashed faintly white on the convex surface of each optic. Jazz gazed up at Prowl, and the lenses flipped into place, precise and silent and lightning quick.

"They look so fragile," Prowl murmured. "I think I can see every part of them. Your friend Wheeljack can work with pieces this delicate?"

"He's real good," Jazz said, although he didn't mention that he'd stayed so long with the inventor to make sure they didn't explode. "So you, um, you like 'em?"

"They are acceptable," Prowl said. "I can find no fault in them. So they match you well."

Jazz smiled at the broader compliment and turned away, sliding his visor back in place and locking it down.

"Yeah, well, they weren't the best he had but they were what I could buy right then, and I didn't like his best ones anyway. And I couldn't see myself wearing yellow or green ones..."

Prowl let him ramble on a moment longer, taking the opportunity to make sure he had no pings from Bluestreak or Airazor and to properly shut down his datapad. He unwrapped his first of five synth-oil capsules and swallowed it, grimacing at the taste. Then he reached forward and tugged on Jazz's doorwing. His peripheral stopped in mid-sentence, watching him intently.

"Your decalcifiers and plate dissolvers," Prowl reminded him.

Jazz's faceplate crinkled, but he took one from each bottle and swallowed obediently, flinching as they went down. "Oh mech, First Aid wasn't kidding. That's nasty."

"You'll forget about them during recharge," Prowl said. He patted the side of the berth once before a thought occurred to him, and he paused. "Did...did you want to stay with me?"

"If'n you don't mind being scrunched up tight," Jazz said, turning and laying down beside him. He didn't have room to lay down by himself, but if he put his head on Prowl's shoulder, curled up hood to hood and put his pede over master's...

"That is acceptable." Prowl put his arm around Jazz to keep him in place, relaxing as he set the lights to turn off. His frame temperature cooled as his system functions reduced, but he remained aware of the heat of the smaller bot lying flush with him, like an extension of his own spark.


	21. Askin' Wheeljack a favor

Jazz buffed out the oil that had begun to slick Prowl's joints, polishing away fluid before it could become grime. Every other shift, he bent Prowl's pedes to force out any excess fluid and then shined the dull steel to gleaming. The wrist and finger joints took longer, requiring he treat each slit of space between his master's armor, but the soft vents of relief told Jazz that his efforts were appreciated.

"'Zat feel better?" Jazz asked.

"Much," Prowl murmured. He didn't shift from the berth, staring at the ceiling as his repair functions left him lethargic. His datapad lay on the stand beside him, but keeping his right arm up for so long before had left his shoulder joint painfully stiff.

"Uh huh," Jazz said. "I'll just take your word for it. When your mech Ratchet says he's gonna lay you flat, he really lays you flat."

Prowl half-smiled. "He is not feared by the entire station for nothing."

Jazz finished with Prowl's hand, then leaned over him for a kiss, nuzzling his chevron again. Then he nudged Prowl's helm to one side and began buffing the slits of his throat.

"Your attentions are sorely appreciated," Prowl said, closing his optics. "I would not want to try to clean my joints after several shifts incapacitated."

"My pleasure," Jazz said. "I've been sick, too. Wished someone would do this for me sometimes."

"Mm." Prowl frowned. "Did your creator hurt you before? Prior to your experimentation with music, I mean."

"Yeah, sometimes," Jazz said. "I didn't always do things the way he liked, played a song a little different than he wanted. Or he thought I was getting too loose with the help."

"'Too loose'?" Prowl repeated.

"Hanging out, getting overenergized with the stage crew or the caterers." Jazz smiled wistfully. "S'how I met Wheeljack. Banged my wing falling off his bar, an' he picked me up and set it back in place without missing a beat. Even that sloshed, I figured this was one mech I needed to know."

"Why did you fall off the bar in the first place?"

Jazz shrugged. "I was overenergized, got a little too much into that song, and I still contend that bar just ain't regulation wide."

"You were singing?"

"I ain't so dumb that I climbed up to dance," Jazz said. "I was just sitting on the edge, minding my own business, playing my guitar. I started going forward so I popped my wings, overcompensated and wham, woke pedes-up on the floor."

Prowl chuckled. "That is quite the visual."

"Well, I got better about balancing after that," Jazz said. "Wheeljack calibrated my gyros. Turns out I wasn't set as good as I could've been."

"How long have you known him?" Prowl asked.

"Oh, 'Jack?" Jazz whistled as he searched for the memory file. "Primus, it's been vorn now. I mean, I met him when I was just starting to solo on the local circuit. He kept me fixed up better than the chamber's medibot and didn't tell Metronome whenever I got cocky or just plain unlucky."

"Ah."

Jazz shot him a sidelong glance. "Something up?"

"Perhaps."

Prowl weighed the thought in his cortex. He knew next to nothing about Wheeljack, save for the short encounter after the bonding ceremony. Still, Wheeljack had mentioned the fraud of House Gourmant disparagingly. And Prowl knew that Jazz trusted him.

"Time can often be of the essence," Prowl said, one hand lightly resting on his subspace generator. "My work on cold case scenarios is often limited mainly by evidence loss or decay. And I will not be able to go back to active duty for so many shifts that I worry that what clues I do have will lose relevance as time goes on."

Jazz tilted his head, frowning. "Bossmech?"

Prowl's mouth twisted as he fought to convince himself of this course of action. It was highly irregular but not entirely outside protocol.

"Do you think Wheeljack would be willing to examine something for me?"

"Huh, I dunno." Jazz shrugged once as Prowl accessed his subspace. "I mean, he's a good mechanic, but..."

Jazz's spark skipped a beat when he saw his torn cables in Prowl's hand.

Prowl couldn't see Jazz's optics widening, but he could read how his peripheral bolted straight, leaning away as if the cords would leap up and bite him, his hand up as if to defend himself. Cursing his own insensitivity, Prowl slipped the cords back into his subspace.

"My apologies," Prowl said quickly. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Jazz vented, looking up at his master for any kind of glare, for any hint of accusation. Instead Prowl raised his hand, cupping Jazz's face.

Jazz turned his face toward Prowl's hand, lingering a moment, and after another vent, he managed to sit straight, and Prowl let his hand drop back into his lap.

Say something, say something, Jazz thought.

"Not often I see pieces of someone," he mumbled. "Anyone I know?"

"Meister," Prowl said. "I yanked them out during our last encounter."

Jazz paused, knowing he should say something else, anything, but this knowledge that Prowl had kept that piece of himself had sent a blast of coolant through him so fast that his cortex felt chilled.

"Musta...musta been a hell of a fight," he managed.

"Not really. He incapacitated me with his damn sonic array, and then protected me against further damage." Prowl vented hard, scowling at his own failure. "I could have caught him, but I was too impaired. I should have ignored Ratchet, called in Airazor and Bluestreak. And I never should have tried to chase him down in the first place."

"If you hadn't," Jazz said, "then he wouldn't have decided to pay your tower a visit. Um, 'least that's what I figured from what you told me."

"True enough," Prowl sighed. "I am simply not built for anything but desk work. Even with my tower creation, I couldn't keep up with him. He literally turned 180 degrees at my top speed."

"You're being too hard on yourself," Jazz said. "You were created for a different reason."

"Calculation," Prowl said, disgusted by the word. "A glorified drone."

"Pft," Jazz scoffed. "And have you heard anything from that bot lately? Any wild thefts or joyrides? I'd bet my spoiler you got that mech scared."

Prowl didn't argue, but he didn't nod, either, staring past Jazz at a far point on the wall. "No bot can be in trouble all the time."

Jazz would have disagreed. He reached for Prowl's hand and held it close.

"I'll ask Wheeljack," he said. "See if he can do anything with those wires. Step at a time, right?"

Prowl nodded, returning Jazz's hold, but his whole frame felt heavy enough to sink into the berth. He closed his optics and released Jazz's hand.

"I believe I need another recharge. Please contact Wheeljack and let me know his answer."

"Sure thing."

Jazz watched him relax and slip into a deep defrag, then quietly stood and headed back to his own room, closing the door behind himself.

What should he do? He paced from one side of the room to the other, hands clasped behind his back. So many ways this could blow up in his face, and yet... Had such a golden opportunity really just dropped in his path?

Standing straight, he pinged Wheeljack, waiting several kliks. Jazz was patient. Wheeljack might be up to his elbows in oil and grease, or else he was busy dealing with a client, or maybe he was patching himself up from an invention gone wrong—

 _Jazz,_ Wheeljack replied. _Did the optics explode? Tell me the optics didn't explode._

 _No explosions,_ Jazz grinned. _But you'll never guess what my master unit wants me to do?_

 _...do I need to start fabricating some interfacing aids?_ Wheeljack asked.

Jazz scowled. _No, thank you, and have a little more faith in me than that, will ya?_

 _Just askin',_ Wheeljack chuckled. _So, gonna make me guess? What's your Enforcer want?_

 _Prowl would like to ask,_ Jazz said, _completely off the record so he don't get in trouble with their medical officer, for you, as a technical consultant, to run the make and models of the cords he yanked outta the criminal Meister._

A long silence followed. Jazz held back his snicker and wished that Wheeljack had a faceplate for him to record his reaction.

_Seriously?_

_Yup!_ Jazz nodded and sat down on the edge of his berth. _Tell me you're up for this, mech, and I'll make it worth your while._

The sigh that came from his friend was all the answer he needed.


	22. In Wheeljack's lab

Another three shifts passed before Prowl felt well enough to stand, and a fourth after that for him to walk down the stairs under his own power. He held Jazz's hand the whole way, squeezing tight as his balance wobbled, but he came to the last step without toppling over and stood straight, venting softly.

"Thank you," Prowl said, letting go of Jazz. "My systems feel more in tune now. I think I am fit for the road."

Jaz tilted his helm and leaned back on his heels. "I dunno 'bout that. Didn't Ratchet say thirty shifts? Been less than ten since he said that, ain't it?"

"Thirty before I could go back to work," Prowl frowned. "Not before I could drive. My repair functions have fallen to normal settings, so it stands to reason that I am sound out."

"But you're not gonna call Ratchet to confirm?" Jazz said.

Prowl gave his peripheral a look, his doorwings lifting high in irritation, but at Jazz's wink and small smile, Prowl released a long vent and let his doorwings drop down. How much easier it was to bend the rules when his peripheral encouraged him.

"No, I am not," Prowl said. "I want this evidence analyzed while any information it holds is still useful."

"Well, can't say looking at some cords sounds all that interesting," Jazz said, walking out with him. "Maybe we'll go do something afterward?"

Together they shifted into their altmodes and rolled out through the gate.

"That is acceptable," Prowl said. "If there is something on the way back you would like to visit."

"Maybe the vid store?" Jazz asked hopefully. "I mean, I know you don't care for 'em, but maybe a game or something?"

Prowl didn't respond for a moment, gingerly shifting gears and easing his tires off the curb onto the road. As they passed along the edge of the tower property, he checked his lights and even slowed before speeding up again, making sure that his brakes worked.

"That sounds..." Prowl paused. "Acceptable. Please ensure that it is relatively realistic."

"Gotcha," Jazz said, bouncing lightly on his tires. "Oh, maybe a strategy sim! Or a city sim...but definitely a sim!"

"Wheels on the road, please," Prowl said without any heat in his voice, confident of Jazz's obedience.

"Sure thing," Jazz said. "Um, but ain't you coming up in front of me?"

"While telling me the route was appreciated," Prowl said, "you have been there before. Therefore you are best suited to lead."

Purrs vibrated out of Jazz's engine, and he led the way up to the on-ramp onto the main highway.

Wheeljack inhabited a warehouse along the main interstate, and for several miles, Prowl followed behind Jazz, rolling at a speed that kept them in the slowest lane. Other mechs passed by in blurs, and Prowl sent a ping ahead.

_I am not so impaired that I cannot drive faster,_ he complained. _We are well below the designated speed limit._

_I hear ya,_ Jazz said, not without sympathy. _But I didn't wanna drag your over-stressed frame back to your mech Ratchet. Any mech that can lay you flat for seven shifts, I don't wanna tangle with, and I wasn't sure what you can handle._

Prowl huffed but he didn't argue.

_'Sides,_ Jazz said, _everyone thinks you're escorting me somewhere so they're giving us lots of room. Feels like we got the road all to ourselves._

That almost felt like an abuse of power, but Prowl felt his axles groaning with each turn and let it go.

As they came off the highway, Jazz pointed out the long stretches of docks, over a thousand warehouses in a broad grid. Hundreds of trucks ran through the center, crisscrossing past each other so closely that Prowl worried for his and Jazz's safety, not being part of the Transport Guild's navigation network, but Jazz led them along less traveled lanes to the far edge, through the wide paths built for larger vans and shuttles.

On the outer rim of warehouses, each structure was more rusted and dented than the next. The few with open doors showed grime and acid rain streaks on the inside, long neglected and left to decay back into the pavement. Among all the abandoned and poorly maintained structures, one stood out with clean walls and a welcoming glow burning along the edge of the closed doors. Jazz brought them close and transformed up onto the loading bay, with Prowl stepping up beside him.

"There does not seem to be much traffic to this dock," Prowl said. His optics widened at the scorched circles on the overhang.

"Is this place safe?" Prowl asked.

Jazz grinned, touching Prowl's elbow. "'Jack's a little 'mad scientist' but he ain't dangerous. And he ain't got enough clients here to make cleaning up worth it."

Jazz brought him over to the broad double doors and pressed the large button on the side. A faint buzz came from inside the warehouse. A moment later, a heavy lock audibly thunked and the door swayed open, and Jazz waved Prowl in after him.

Tools, stray parts and steaming liquids in vast titration crystals filled every visible counterspace, spilling out onto numerous steel crates repurposed into tables. Riveted pieces of shaped metal that Prowl couldn't recognize spilled over the edges and littered the floor, a mass of indistinguishable spare parts surrounding several kettles of minerals liquefied over flame.

Boiling mercury, simmering quicksilver, molten gold pouring steadily over a large diamond... Prowl recognized a few ingredients but he'd only been tangentially aware of his House's confectioneries, let alone the fine details of how anything was made. A few stoves stood under cases of clear glass so that the steam didn't mingle with any other minerals, and as Prowl continued his observations, he noticed that anything over a flame was set far apart from any other heat sources. Even in the messy piles, chemicals were labelled and arranged so that nothing would react with anything else.

The charred blast marks beneath them...on the wall...Prowl looked up and flinched...on the ceiling...all showed the reason for the inventor's caution.

_You are certain this place is safe?_ he pinged again to Jazz.

_Sure,_ Jazz said. _But, uh, let me stand in front?_

Prowl shot him a look, but Wheeljack called them over before he could protest.

"In the back!"

Something toppled onto the floor and clattered around.

"Try to avoid the kettles! I was unpacking my last shipment, and well-"

Behind a row of shelves filled to sagging with boxes and lose hoses and connectors, they found Wheeljack bent over a crate half as tall as he was and twice as wide. He dug around in the crate, tossing out shredded packing material while gingerly bringing out ingots of dented gold.

"They packed the foam at the bottom," Wheeljack sighed, his vocal processors flashing. "Why do they always pack the foam at the bottom?"

"Hey, 'Jack." Jazz came up behind him, clearing a way through the kettles and connectors. "You up for that thing I mentioned?"

"Sure, sure." Wheeljack stood and turned, nodding once at Prowl. "Jazz said something about looking at a couple hoses you had?"

Prowl nodded in return, but he hesitated. Wheeljack's hands were covered in grime and his headlights and chassis showed ruddy rust smears. The inventor had been interrupted in the middle of his work.

"My apologies for intruding," Prowl said. "But the material I have may be time sensitive, and I could not allow myself to wait any longer."

"Hey, no problem," Wheeljack said, wiping his hands off with a solvent rag. "Ain't nothing in here that can't keep. Well, except the mercury, but those glass tubes are pressurized so it can boil for another joor or two...I think."

Jazz took a casual step backward, between Prowl and the bubbling mercury.

"So anyway," Wheeljack said, "what you got for me?"

Prowl opened his subspace and withdrew the cords, holding them out. "These. I ripped them out of a suspect's pelvic coupling."

"Whoa. Jazz had said they were torn, but he didn't say..." Wheeljack glanced at Jazz, who frowned, and then back at the cords, his audios flashing in distress. "Ripped? Like, as in yanked right out of him?"

"Yes," Prowl said, his hand still out.

"Ow." Wheeljack put his hand under Prowl's and took the cords as they tipped into his palm. "Two centimeters thick and they still shredded... Huh. Okay, come with me. I got a pretty heavy duty microscope over here. If it's got serial numbers, I'll find 'em."

In the back corner, beneath several dingy white polymer sheets, stood a microscope half as large as Jazz. Wheeljack cleared the machine off with a wave of his hand, sending the sheets fluttering onto the floor. Scribbles and notes covered each sheet, and Prowl realized that Wheeljack had written on them in ink.

"You...don't use datapads?" Prowl asked.

"Huh?" Wheeljack set the cords on the flat tray and looked through the optics port, fine tuning the lens focus via the key pad. "I do, yeah. Why?"

"All these polymers," Prowl said. "They're all written on."

The sheets lay haphazardly strewn around them, dripping off the desk and crates without any order. He stared at the floor now covered with sheets, the scribbles, half-finished thoughts and arrows as alien to him as an organic lifeform.

"Oh, that." Wheeljack brought his hand up, pressing the same button on the side of the optics piece. "I like writing out my equations sometimes. Or I doodle out my notes. It's easier to connect ideas."

Prowl glanced at Jazz, who shrugged.

"I do the same thing," Jazz said. "Ain't that weird for some mechs. Inventors, artists."

Mechs that Prowl had never been around. Prowl wondered if the confectioners in his tower, the bots who actually created the new treats, wrote their recipes. That would explain why the head chefs spent so much on polymer sheets. He'd wondered at that expense before but never questioned it.

"I think I found something." Wheeljack stood back, gesturing for Prowl to look.

Prowl put his optics to the lens. At first he couldn't make out what he was seeing, but then he recognized the torn surface of a red cord. The ragged edges had stretched to a sheer whiteness and the metal cables inside had strange chiseled edges. A black serial number ran along the edge, cut off where the rubber ended.

"HC-28-23KP22...it's a partial." Prowl vented and stood back. "Damn. That will make this harder."

"Well, I can tell you the manufacturer," Wheeljack said. "Kaon Persiloxane. If it's the 28 series, then it's a generic. No one gets sparked with that."

"Then he's been repaired before," Prowl said. "Where can these cords be procured?"

"Oh, that?" Wheeljack returned the cords back to Prowl. "Lotta places. Lot of medibots or mechanics use 'em. I pick 'em up at auctions or salvage. Cheaper that way. Sometimes it's sight unseen boxes, you know, from pawn brokers dealing parts."

Prowl closed his optics. Pawn broker salvage sales. Which meant bits and pieces sold by Empties without any record of name or number. Practically untraceable.

"Meister would have needed repair immediately," Prowl said to himself. "My database should have all Praxian dealers listed. I will need to draw up a list of all auctions and sales in the last forty...no, fifty shifts. Hopefully I will not need to go back further, but if these are generic wire twists, then they might not have been bought recently. And then I can create a list of every mech in attendance for every auction."

Wheeljack's audios flashed bright for a moment, and he exchanged a look with Jazz, who was likewise staring in shock.

"Uh, that's gonna be a lot of mechs," Wheeljack said. "Thousands. And auction places don't always keep lists."

"True," Prowl said, unfazed. "But security cameras are often used, and if not at the auction itself, then in the store fronts or private apartments surrounding the area. Or street cameras. I have used those many times to generate new leads on cases. This adds several steps, but it is not insurmountable."

"Wow." Wheeljack tilted his helm. "Most Enforcers I ever met, they'd say they can't find it and forget about it."

"Yes, they do," Prowl nodded, and he couldn't help his small smile. "And it lands on my desk as a cold case, and then I find the clues that they missed or did not have the processing power to notice."

"And how many cases have you helped get going again?"

"Technically ninety-four percent," Prowl said. "But I have nearly three hundred cases still pending for when I return to work. I hope to bring that percentage close to perfect."

Wheeljack's audios flashed silently and his optics reset several times, straying toward Jazz. His peripheral met Wheeljack's look and then glanced aside, his usual smile faded and turning into a wince.

As usual, Prowl found his enjoyment in calculation disturbing his companions. Even among mechs, few were sparked with such enthusiasm for painstaking attention to detail and the minutiae of codes, recordings and bits of evidence.

Prowl's wings drooped slightly. He blamed it on fatigue and ignoring Ratchet's advice, and he forced himself to stand straight as if he wasn't bothered.

"Thank you for taking this time to assist me," Prowl said, reverting to his familiar Enforcer script. "If you remember anything or think of anything else, please contact me."

"Yeah," Wheeljack nodded, a little too slowly. "Yeah, sure. I'll ping Jazz if I, uh, remember anything."

Wheeljack saw them out with a last look at Jazz, and then the docking doors shut again. Alone on an empty loading bay, Prowl took a long vent and let his doorwings drop from their awkwardly high angle. He'd had them canted at a hard angle, and his shoulders struts ached.

Prowl looked over the dark road leading out of the docks, the city lights glowing against the dark sky and the blurry towers blazing in the distance. The sounds of the main highway in the distance and the thousands of cars humming together. Praxus, the office, his tower, even Meister seemed a world away.

"You okay?" Jazz asked, coming around and looking up at him. "You got kinda quiet there."

With only the faint glow of the city around them, Jazz gleamed in edges of electric light, a silhouette lined in silver, and as Prowl studied him, noting even the tinge of his visor reflecting off his hood, he found himself wanting to draw closer, to examine the more minute physical details that he couldn't experience by optics alone. He reached behind Jazz's helm and leaned forward, and when Jazz didn't resist, pressed their lips together.

The case could wait. Would _have_ to wait until he was officially back at work. Meister and Retentis and everything else could wait.

"You said you wanted to do something afterward," Prowl said as he drew back. "I don't want to go back yet."

A smile slowly crept over Jazz's face, and Prowl wondered what his optics looked like with that expression.

"I got just the thing," Jazz said.

Praxian highways were legend on Cybertron. Few vehicles in Praxus could fly, but the highways soared miles into the sky so that their lights were visible to distant Vos, the highest performing mechs racing by at the same altitude as the jets as ice formed on their spoilers.

Beneath these tallest roads, more lanes were layered in intricate knots across the entire city, plunging further down into the lower levels. Grown out of vorn of continuous construction on top of itself until Praxus lost track of its own ancient structure, the undercity extended for miles in all directions and held few streetlamps so that Praxians raced down tunnels by indistinct shapes and old, rusted towers, city blocks and acid rain pouring past, the intermittent darkness broken only by their own headlights.

Normally the disparate layers were invisible to each other, and few mechs had cause to travel the heights and depths of Praxus in a single shift. Jazz brought Prowl up to one of the higher roads, a broad curve that wound further out and along the edge of the city. Traffic thinned as mechs took the offramps and faded back into the city, and then Jazz led him along a spur to a stretch at the border of the steel plains surrounding Praxus. Prowl didn't question the route, but he sent a concerned ping when Jazz drew up on the shoulder and rolled to a stop at the guard railing.

"It's cool," Jazz said, transforming back to root mode. "This is where I wanted to bring you."

Prowl bit back the immediate comment that the shoulder was for emergencies only. Jazz had brought him here for a reason, despite the law that he must have known Prowl would mention.

"Check it out."

Prowl followed Jazz's raised hand, steadying himself on the railing as he looked out over the city. His optics focused as the lights blurred, then sharpened and glittered...

His vent caught in his intake.

Hundreds _—_ no, thousands of headlights and tail lights dashing in the darkness, streaks and brief flashes as mechs sped in and out of sight, rising up through clouds of chlorine cyanide and careening down into the dark undercity...

...and he could see some of the layers of old Praxus. The layers of asphalt and steel had cracked and peeled away over several hundred meters, exposing the network of roads that still functioned in near pitch-black darkness.

His optics widened, and his doorwings rose to better record the shifting lights. Like a jewel lit up from within, Praxus sparkled as heat rose from the lowest levels, a ripple of waves that set a fine shimmering layer on the city. From the steel depths to the heights of the distant noble towers, Praxus and her mechs glowed against the dark Cybertron skies and lit up the clouds from below.

The lights altered subtly, and Prowl shuddered. There was a pattern here. The movement of the headlights were deliberate. He could feel it. He reset his optics several times, leaning against the guard rail. If he could just focus...if he could record every vehicle's movement, just catch and compare two pictures, or two hundred pictures of a few thousand cars-

His knees buckled. His wings pulled in out of reflex. As the guard rail slipped away, he fell back and found himself staring at the sky careening wildly by. In the distance, just before he hit the pavement, he heard Jazz calling his name and pinging his comm. And then the high pitched whine of a processor crash, and then nothing.


	23. The End of the Road was the End of Me

_error_

_nvphaz . adm=89_

_stop processes: x0000x00000984 . sys_

_address 6x9889 . linksys not available_

_error_

Few mechs had seen the crash code. Fewer mechs could remember it, a series of white letters blinking against a primitive green screen that covered the optics. Prowl knew that he wasn't actually seeing the letters, that they were playing out in his cortex as it spun in loops.

His awareness fled from his cortex and took refuge in his spark chamber, chased down into his primal sense of self. Most mechs hadn't done this often enough for it to feel familiar, and a vague sense of safety warred with his panic. He flailed for code and found nothing, looked for outside stimuli to latch onto and found only the dull hum and beat of his spark.

If only he could vent, draw in a deep gasp of air and let go...but there was no air. No space. Just this white box of nothingness where he was alone, all alone, always-

In the distance, he heard something that wasn't his spark beat. Tinny like an 8-bit chiptune moving in a steady rhythm, a faint melody at the edge of his awareness. He turned his whole awareness toward it, tentatively easing closer, running up against the edge of his spark chamber.

The melody grew stronger. Just as he drew closer, it likewise moved toward him, and soon he couldn't tell where it originated from. It simply surrounded him, swirling around him. He touched it, and it drew back, enticing him on. Another touch, another retreat, and he crept up out of his spark chamber.

His processes were a mess, code unraveling in ribbons around him. He commanded everything to shut down, to get out of his way, and as he followed the melody, his systems rebooted around him. System files re-engaged, neural links found their proper addresses, and he drove upwards, moving faster as his cortex came back online-

His optics opened, rebooting and resetting, and he looked up at Jazz leaning over him.

Jazz's mouth moved, but Prowl's audios had not yet come back. Prowl took several vents, relieved at the feel of it, and waited. His balance gyros shifted slightly, and he realized he was in Jazz's arms, jostled slightly as his peripheral moved. His wings were cradled up away from the pavement and his helm lay on Jazz's arm. A comfortable, familiar sensation, although his memory tags were too scattered to remember why.

Prowl's vocalizer had not rebooted yet. Instead he told his internal communication system to come online and sent his peripheral a positive ping. Jazz vented deep.

"What the hell was that?" Jazz asked. "You just dropped."

Prowl closed his optics. Jazz's voice sang straight into his spark. His whole frame relaxed and his systems calmed so that the worst of his code simply shut down, leaving his vital systems more memory to reboot and perform maintenance.

"Prowl?" Jazz held him a little tighter and bowed his helm. "What happened? You ain't saying nothing. Prowl?"

Another ping. Jazz grimaced and shielded Prowl from the blown dust as a vehicle drove by. They lay right next to the highway, and Jazz suddenly felt vulnerable and alone. On the edge of the city, there was no way to drive Prowl home himself. Maybe he could call Wheeljack?

Jazz frowned. No. Prowl didn't need to know how good Wheeljack was with repairs. That left the towers...not an option. He vented and nudged his master's cortex for a slip of information, a little surprised when Prowl's security suite didn't demand a passcode or permissions. Jazz was allowed in and given access as if he was part of Prowl's systems. And then he pinged the frequency.

_Um..._ he started, not sure how to talk to mech he was calling. _Anyone out there? Jazz here. Uh, Prowl's peripheral. He kinda needs some help..._

_For the love of Primus!_ A weary voice managed to make Prowl's crash sound like a personal insult. _Thirty shifts! He can't even go thirty shifts!_ _That's it! I'm ripping off his wheels and grounding him for a vorn!_

Jazz startled as the voice burst in his helm. _I...who...did I get the right frequency?_

_Yes,_ the voice snapped. _Ratchet. Not Primus, but I'm the next best thing. Send me your coordinates and I'll send First Aid for a pick up._ A pause a few kliks. _I'm waiting._

Still frozen, Jazz coughed and nodded quickly, sending their location to the Enforcer medibot.

_Huh. You're on the highway. What the hell are you doing on the highway?_

_I dunno what happened. Prowl just kinda dropped—we were on the side of the road looking at the lights and he just keeled over._ Jazz held Prowl tight, feeling like Ratchet might take his wheels off, too.

Over the connection, the medibot vented in palpable irritation. _Dammit...he crashed. What made him crash?_

_I don't know,_ Jazz said, close to keening over his master unit. _I don't know. I don't...I could try asking. He only sent a tone when he woke up, but maybe he'll get better in a couple kliks..._

Silence. Static hissed over the connection. Jazz gasped air, afraid they wouldn't find him, and he tried to reestablish the link just to find that he hadn't lost it in the first place.

_He woke up?_

Jazz curled in on himself, not sure what to say. _Yeah. He can't talk but he's awake._

_...stay there. Don't move. I'm transferring you to First Aid. Do not break contact, and you_ will _ride back with him. You got that?_

As Jazz pinged back a positive, he felt the connection shift frequency, followed by a familiar voice.

_Hi Jazz,_ First Aid said. _Just sit tight. I'll be there in a few kliks, I promise._

Jazz's doorwings dropped as he slumped in relief, having sat up stiffly the entire time he talked with Ratchet. _Oh 'Aid, I'm glad it's you coming and not that grumpy party wagon._

First Aid chuckled. _Ratchet has that effect on mechs. By the way, you shouldn't be too harsh on him. All our communications are logged so he'll be reading this later._

Despite the chill that went down his core, Jazz grinned. _If he can make Prowl better, I don't mind being yowled at. Just...just come quick?_

_I'm on my way,_ First Aid promised.

Although the communication stayed open, First Aid fell silent to concentrate on speeding down the highway, his lights flashing in the dark. Jazz stared out over the city, waiting to spot him in the distance, listening to the wind blowing past in the dark.

* * *

In the Enforcer station, Prowl sat upright on the medical berth. He was vaguely aware of Ratchet growling, but Prowl knew all of Ratchet's subtle clues. Since Ratchet's voice held a .5 frequency modulation and not .6, that meant that the medibot was annoyed and narrowing in on a tricky diagnosis. Not angry, and not threatening to remove his wheels. So Prowl continued to ignore him and clasp the edge of the berth, focusing on a spot on the wall, allowing his balance gyros time to realign.

Jazz had to crane his helm back to see Ratchet's faceplate, but it wasn't Ratchet's larger size that had him all but welded to the floor. In the medibot's face, there was none of First Aid's naivete, none of his innocence and optimism and accommodating nature.

"Don't tell me you did nothing," Ratchet said, staring hard at Jazz. "None of that false modesty scrap. Prowl never wakes up from his crashes on his own. What did you do?"

Jazz reset his optics. "He crashes? He's done this before?"

Ratchet's focus turned on Prowl, irritated enough to snap at him and annoyed that Prowl wouldn't notice. "Didn't even tell your peripheral you tend to crash. Walking glitch..."

With a heavy vent, Ratchet rubbed a growing crease just under and behind his chevron. "Look, sparkplug, I've been up for the past five shifts keeping mechs in one piece despite their best efforts. You two are the last thing between me and a recharge. Now tell me what I wanna hear so I can go home."

Jazz bit his lip. "Uh, okay. When he went down, I knelt down with him, and I was kinda holding him up in my arms so he didn't crush nothing. And he wasn't saying nothing, so I tried to ping him. And he still didn't say nothing, so I tried to comm him proper. And it was a big empty nothing answering me, so I figured I'd try using the, um, peripheral link he has on me. It kinda felt like there was a big empty lake of mercury I could tell was there, but I couldn't see it."

He paused, but Ratchet didn't interrupt him, instead waving for him to continue. Encouraged, Jazz went on.

"So I guess I called out. And I didn't hear nothing, but it felt like something rippled under me. And...well, I guess it's kinda stupid, but..."

"It woke him up," Ratchet said. "So it ain't stupid. What'd you do?"

"I sang." Jazz vented and looked down, still feeling like he'd acted nonsensically. "Nothing huge. Something I used to sing all the time when I wasn't thinking. And then it felt like whatever it was under me, it was rippling and splashing around. Like something was coming. And then he kinda woke up."

"Hm."

Ratchet stared at him for several kliks, and Jazz lowered his gaze, wishing he could turn into alt mode and park in a corner and pretend he wasn't there.

"'Aid," Ratchet said, still looking at Jazz. "Any sign of anything in Prowl?"

"No, sir." First Aid turned from Prowl and flipped his datapad so Ratchet could see. "No stims, no engine boosts. He's clean."

"Hmf." Ratchet huffed and didn't bother to check First Aid's work. "Fine. Then sparkplug here just magically came up with a new way to restart mechs after a crash."

Ratchet went to his work station in the corner and sat down hard, running files through his own datapad. He didn't look at any of them as he finished up the shift's logs.

"'Aid, get the song he used. I wanna keep it on file. If I ever get a shift off, maybe I can try something with it."

First Aid held up his datapad to Jazz, flipping on a record function.

"If you could just sing the same song as when Prowl woke up," he said. "We can see if there was something particularly helpful about it or if it was a fluke."

Jazz vented in sharply, glancing at Ratchet, then back at First Aid.

"Uh..." He grimaced. "I'm not s'posed to sing things like it, though. It's...I wrote it, and...if my chamber got wind of it getting recorded-slag, if Metronome found out—"

"Over my dead spark," Ratchet said. "It's medical. Ain't no one gonna hear it but me an' Aid. And hell, it was probably a fluke. I'll delete it once I'm sure."

"Don't worry," First Aid said, patting Jazz's tire and giving him a meaningful look. "Anything you tell a medibot, you can trust us to be discreet. Right?"

Jazz read his look and felt coolant chill him to the core. True, the little medical bot been discreet with all his little secrets locked away for safekeeping. And First Aid wasn't above referring to them in front of Ratchet as blackmail. The little medibot didn't have a faceplate to smile, but his whole frame radiated smug satisfaction.

"You're just as scary as he is," Jazz breathed. "An' ain't no one knows it."

First Aid's visor glimmered proudly. "Everyone thinks I'm too cute to be dangerous." He held up the datapad. "The song?"

One hand running down his faceplate, Jazz vented hard and put his hand on Prowl's, reassured when Prowl turned his hand palm up and held him in return.

"It's real old," Jazz said, suddenly self-aware of the song's poor meter and rhyme and rhythm. "I was real young, just sparked..."

"Don't apologize for it," First Aid said. "It woke Prowl up, after all."

Jazz stared at him, then sighed in defeat. After a quick cough of his intake, he began.

"C-cross the road under a thousand lights, the wind is carrying all that weight. Never felt so heavy as I flew this fast, didn't know till now I wasn't built to last."

Jazz hesitated just a klik. First Aid hadn't said anything or indicated what he thought of the song, and to the side Ratchet was too busy with files to make any kind of face.

"A thousand miles and nowhere to go, running hard so I can drop the load, but light burns heavy 'till I can see the end of the road was the end of me."

Jazz nodded, motioning that he was done. Beside him, Prowl vented in relief and turned his helm toward Jazz.

Despite looking busy, Ratchet caught Prowl's movement. "'Are his audios online?"

First Aid moved to check. "Um...yes, they're coming online. Just twenty percent, but climbing."

"Mm." Ratchet grimaced. "Inconclusive. Okay, once his vitals are steady at seventy, he can go home. Jazz, listen up."

Jazz stared with wide optics, half-afraid Ratchet would demand a full scan of his schematics and cortex and processors and...

"Prowl's gonna need you to take him home nice and slow. He's always loopy after a crash. Just get him home, get some energon in him—slowly, mind you, or else he might purge—and then get him recharging. Some defragging and compiling and he'll be good as new by next shift."

Jazz nodded quickly, listening to everything, and he relaxed as he realized that Ratchet was done.

"Um...does he crash a lot?" Jazz asked. "'Cause...I thought crashing was worse than just taking two cubes and call ya in the morning."

"Prowl's a special case," Ratchet said, and he turned off his workstation for the end of his shift, leaning back with a deep sigh. "Look. This is medical need to know, so don't go spreading this. I'm only telling you 'cause you're linked up with him now."

Jazz nodded once.

"Prowl was sparked for a tower that wanted a function without caring how that function would affect the mech. He's a great calculator, sure, but too much input, too many variables?" Ratchet waved his hand. "His cortex overloads and he crashes. He's probably seen the crash code often enough to remember it."

Jazz frowned, considering that, and looked up at Prowl. His master unit continued to stare at the wall, venting regularly and no longer swaying, but Prowl's optics focused and unfocused unevenly.

"Will he be okay?" Jazz asked. "Mechs don't always come back right, I heard."

"He should be fine," Ratchet said, but he spoke mildly, much softer than before. "Don't dwell on it too much. Like I said, Prowl's kinda special that way. His cortex is strong enough to bounce back. He'll just need some time. You'll see. He gets real embarrassed about it."

There wasn't much to say after that. Jazz signed First Aid's datapad to verify the diagnosis and treatment, then waited with them as First Aid prepared for the start of his triple-shift and Ratchet ended his own. When Prowl's systems were finally steady, Jazz helped him off the berth and took him through the office. Most of the lights were off, leaving only a skeleton crew of Enforcers near the front, and the street was devoid of traffic as Jazz and Prowl transformed to alt mode.

_Heading home,_ Jazz said. _Nice and slow, 'kay?_

Prowl pinged back an affirmative but didn't speak.


	24. A Charmed Cybercat

The trip home was quiet, keeping to the slowest lane, and Jazz kept an optic on Prowl behind him to make sure his master unit didn't fall behind or drift off onto the shoulder.

Only as they came up to their tower did Jazz begin to relax, opening the gate and steadying Prowl as he came back to his pedes. Still staring without focus, Prowl stood slumped but managed to walk at Jazz's side.

"I'ma get you some energon," Jazz said as he saw him safely sitting on the berth. "Don't recharge 'till I'm back."

Another positive ping. Jazz put his hands on Prowl's helm, holding him close and nuzzling his chevron.

"You still with me?" He chuckled. "Can't quite tell. You been pinging me 'yes' this whole time."

A negative ping. Jazz chuckled again, hugged Prowl and then let him go, making sure he wouldn't tumble off the berth. Leaving Prowl staring at the wall again, Jazz went downstairs and began drawing two cubes of energon.

_Jazz-report._

This time Jazz managed to keep a grip on the cubes, although a little pink liquid sloshed on his fingertips. Grimacing, he licked off the drops and continued to fill the cube.

_Still as shrill as ever, bossmech,_ Jazz answered. _And ain't nothing new to report. 'less you think my Enforcer crashing is noteworthy._

_He has crashed and you did not see fit to inform me?_ Metronome said.

_Since he crashed 'cause too many lights on the highway overloaded him, I thought it was more ridiculous than reportable._ Jazz finished one cube and began on the second. _House Gourmant gave us a real winner here._

_I did not place you with him to receive crash reports,_ Metronome said. _I want Enforcer information._

_He's only got more beat up since the ceremony,_ Jazz said. _When Prowl tried to get information out of his datapad, their medical bot shut down his access. But I do know that the Enforcers don't think Chamber Harmonic is involved in the fighting._

_You are certain of this?_

_'If they thought it was Harmoic, they'd tell Prowl to get information from me,_ Jazz said. _Right?_

_...have they tried?_

Jazz smiled grimly. _Nope. I am a good little peripheral. Worst thing I done was whine about taking my meds._

Metronome's communication lay open for several kliks, and then the signal vanished without another word.

The high pitched frequency of his maker always left a ringing in his helm. Jazz grumbled and finished filling the second cube.

"So," he murmured to himself. "Not a mention of the theft. Either you know it was me, or you think I'm tied down good and proper to my master unit."

But he doubted that Metronome knew. His maker would have demanded assurances to the sheet music's safety immediately, and he would have scolded Jazz for stealing something without sanction, without the increased insurance and a minor music tower to pin it on. Jazz sometimes wondered how many bots Metronome had on hand, other thieves and spies and occasional saboteurs. How many the other chambers and towers had?

And maybe sparked killers? Jazz didn't want to know about that. A smash and grab or a high speed chase was just a bit of fun. Actually greying out a mech?

Maybe he was just a little glad that he'd been tied down good and proper to the Enforcers, Metronome's glitchy thief put away where he couldn't do any harm.

When he came back up to Prowl, he sat down beside him on the berth and put a cube in Prowl's hands.

"Up for a drink?" Jazz asked.

"I-I-I believe so."

Jazz vented in sharply, almost crushing the cube in his hand. He hadn't expected a real answer.

Prowl shut his optics, pressing his hand on his chevron as it to ease pressure in his helm. "Are you alri-ri-right?"

"I think I should ask you that," Jazz said. He put his hand on Prowl's shoulder, turning him so he could see his faceplate. "Is that...normal?"

"I-I-I am having difficulty with certain vocalizations," Prowl said slowly. "And my system is still overheated. But yes. This is normal and will pass."

Jazz pressed his lips together, not sure what to say. Prowl hadn't met his look and seemed...from the flush on his faceplate, he looked embarrassed. And Jazz didn't want him to be more uncomfortable than he already was.

"Thank Primus," Jazz said, leaning close. "Ratchet didn't say much, and...I'm glad you're talking again."

Prowl took a sip, and when his hand shook, Jazz steadied him without thinking.

"I-I am sorry," Prowl said. "I-I had hoped these had ended."

"Nothing to be sorry 'bout," Jazz said. "You're..."

He didn't know how to finish that. He settled for kissing Prowl's faceplate and encouraging him to take another sip.

"You called for help?" Prowl asked, coughing down a mouthful of energon.

"Yeah," Jazz said. "Called the Enforcers. Ratchet answered and First Aid came and got us."

Prowl didn't answer for a moment, taking another sip.

"You knew Ratchet's frequency code?"

Jazz winced. "Uh. Not really?"

Prowl opened his optics and glanced at him.

"I kinda nudged your cortex," Jazz said softly. "Asked for the number. It just came to me, and I called 'em up. Was...are you mad?"

"No," Prowl said, and he took Jazz's hand in his. "How could I-I be mad?"

Jazz look at him, reading his faceplate for the slightest hint of anger or annoyance. But Prowl's face was as steady as ever, despite his optics switching lenses too quickly.

"I-I am unused to this kind of link," Prowl said. "I-I am not entir-irely certain of its limits or boundaries. And I-I am not comfortable with how it was forced on both of us. But..."

Prowl half-smiled, and he managed to put his hand behind Jazz's helm, running his fingers along the edge of his audiohorn. "I can think of no one I would rather be bound to."

Jazz's mouth parted in growing surprise, his helm tilting as he stared. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. This wasn't Metronome's plan. This hadn't been Jazz's plan. Somewhere the plan had blurred and morphed into something completely different. Prowl was supposed to be a virus-laden tool, but he'd become a glitchmouse for an increasingly charmed cybercat. And now...?

Jazz had known Prowl was dangerous. He just hadn't realized how.


	25. Suprise Attacks

For the next ten shifts, Jazz was the dutiful peripheral. He fetched cortex liquid patch pills for Prowl, took his own meds without complaint or reminder, and even used his friendship with Bluestreak to win a few more details for his master unit. No new leads on Meister and nothing solid on the tower fighting.

When they had finished their energon and lay down to recharge, Jazz put his helm on Prowl's shoulder, one pede over Prowl's, his arm draped around his master's waist. He couldn't keep Metronome out, but for now everything around him was full of the quiet rumble of Prowl's engine.

Prowl sat up in the berth, one hand resting on his datapad. His other arm wrapped around Jazz, holding him close.

"Nothing?" Prowl echoed. "That worries me."

"No news is a good thing, though, ain't it?"

Jazz lay with his helm on Prowl's shoulder, and he looked up to meet Prowl's gaze.

"I mean, maybe Meister won't show again?" Jazz said, tapping his fingertips on Prowl's hood. "Do, uh, do bad guys ever just stop?"

"Over eighty percent of offenders stop only due to incarceration or death," Prowl said. He noticed Jazz's wince and patted his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I know you don't like thinking about smelters."

"Yeah, that," Jazz murmured.

"But it was actually the towers I was referring to," Prowl said. "A lull in the fighting likely means that both sides are regrouping. That a more violent confrontation is brewing."

"Mm."

Jazz frowned. If Prowl was right—and his master unit was scary accurate—then Metronome was probably planning something right now. Something Meister would be called on to handle. And one more job would probably give Prowl enough hints to narrow in on Jazz.

"Do you think Meister works for the towers?" Jazz asked.

"I believe I mentioned he must be a tower mech," Prowl said, "considering his abilities and high-performance frame. But I believe he won't be part of the fighting. He seems to be more of a thief or a distraction."

Prowl tilted his datapad screen so Jazz could see it more easily. Images of Meister, blurry and barely visible, scrolled by with Prowl's notes on the side.

"Once I knew what I was looking for, the images came more rapidly. I've catalogued two more of his thefts just this shift. And I am over ninety percent certain that his strings are pulled by someone else."

Jazz watched quietly as Prowl listed each heist over the past half-vorn. His master had missed a few, but no matter. He'd found enough. Golden strings from Maestro's harp just before Chamber Chorale's debut concert. An atomic metronome from House Sarabande during their dress rehearsal. The mech Theremin of the historical House Strata lost his compiled acetate notes on the origin of the chrys-guitar and how it was not the original invention of Chamber Harmonics. They were all cold cases, forgotten by every single Enforcer except the one mech who could begin to put lost clues together to fill in a picture.

"Despite being highly valued, these items have not reappeared," Prowl said. "Our informants have never seen them in the underground auctions. So if they are not resold, then there must be another motive for the thefts. If Meister was wealthy enough to want to collect them, he would have hired someone else to steal them. Therefore, he is either hired or commanded to steal. And I am leaning toward him being commanded."

Jazz made a soft sound that could've been questioning. Prowl took that as a cue to continue.

"A professional thief would not joyride," Prowl said. "He would do nothing to call attention to himself. But a young tower mech with no standing? He would want to blow off the pressure of being forced to risk himself time and again."

Jazz felt torn in two, wanting to run out onto the highway and wanting to cling tight to Prowl. He bit his lip and pushed his face against Prowl's throat cables.

"You don't think he's evil?"

Prowl fell silent, allowing Jazz to readjust against his side.

"He is a thief," Prowl said. "But he is not a killer. And...he caught me when he didn't have to. Twice. No, I don't think he's evil. And if he is being forced...I want to save him. He could provide valuable information in return for Enforcer protection."

Jazz clung hard to Prowl, feeling the rumblings of his engine deep in his own frame. Their systems had synched almost perfectly, and Jazz's processors had become more and more in tune with Prowl's.

"Perhaps we shouldn't discuss this," Prowl said softly, kissing the corner of Jazz's visor. "It always seems to upset you."

Without trying to force a connection, Prowl had created a link stronger than even the temple ceremony had tried to create. Jazz felt Prowl's concern nudging at the edge of his thoughts, his desire to make Jazz content and calm. Even a pinged inquiry if Jazz wanted to sing or play his guitar for awhile.

Jazz squeezed shut his optics. Prowl had come to enjoy listening to Jazz's improvisations, encouraging him to create. If Prowl wanted to protect Meister...

Oh, but if Prowl was lying! The rejection, the hate, the anger that could follow.

Jazz told himself to be brave. Trust Prowl. Prowl hadn't lied to him, hadn't hurt him, hadn't even raised his hand... Jazz squirmed. He didn't want anything to change, but it had to change no matter what. Prowl would find out somehow. There was no stopping him.

"Prowler..." Jazz murmured, the words at the edge of his voice. "I...I'm..."

A command triggered. Pain flashed white in his cortex. A high pitched frequency blanked out his audios with static and his optics blanked out.

_nvphaz . adm = disabled_

_disable processes : x0000x00000984 . sys_

_address 6x9889 . linksys disabled_

_processor error_

Suddenly blind and deaf, Jazz bolted upright and fell off the berth. His vocal processor refused to work. In his rising panic, he tried to reboot everything and found nothing responding. He couldn't feel anything.

Completely numb, he sunk toward the safety of his sparkchamber as his world grew smaller and darker, closing in on him as he huddled against the only thing left to him, the small dim flicker of his spark. From his cortex, under siege from an unknown source, something was rushing toward him like acid rain, like a meteor storm. He could barely understand the attack, overwhelmed with sudden alien commands. The static grew into the oncoming roar of code—crash imminent, crash imminent—

_out_undo_partial_alloc_

_block_n:x-set/0_

_reroute_access_

_return_

_restart_

_enable_

The storm...stopped. The roar snuffed out like smoke. Jazz held his vents even though he knew he wasn't really venting.

_void_groups: free all_

_reboot_root_phys: tactile_

_reboot_root_cortex: enable_

Jazz could have understood the code if they hadn't flown by in nanokliks. Slowly information began to flow back into his systems. Touch, sound...at first they whispered in, barely enough to let him know he still existed, and then more and more data processed until he could feel, hear himself venting again. Something was interfacing with him from outside his processors, managing what had been a freefall and bringing him back online one system at a time.

_Jazz?_

_Jazz. Come back to me._

That code...he did understand.

He opened his optics. He was on his knees, hanging onto Prowl's hands as his master unit stood over him, holding him upright. Jazz keened once, clinging tight as his sensors came online in bursts. He felt like he was tipping backwards and sinking at the same time, and only Prowl kept him from tumbling into nothingness.

Something was happening around them. His sensors flickered wildly, registering billowing waves of heat and streaks of smoldering ash. Was he on fire? Jazz still felt numb, and every sensor that came back registered the same thing. A roar of flame, breaking crystal. The groan of steel?

_Jazz,_ Prowl said, looking straight into his optics. _I'm going to close some of your receptors. It will feel odd, but don't fight this-_

Jazz tried to gasp down vent after vent, unable to feel himself drawing air. He shook his helm and winced as more code flowed in from Prowl, his master unit feeling around his cortex, as if Prowl were gently putting his hands around Jazz's code and sifting through it.

Prowl frowned. _There is a signal-_

_No,_ Jazz breathed. _No-_

_It is coming from a port behind your firewall._ Prowl narrowed his optics but his hold remained gentle. His focus locked on Jazz's security suite and began tapping at the edges, testing its abilities. _It's hurting you._

_Prowl-_

_I'm sorry,_ Prowl said, and with their code mingling so closely, Jazz actually felt the regret and concern warring inside him. _I didn't want to force you to show me this, but we are running out of time and options._

Jazz's firewall shattered, obliterated so quickly that for a moment he imagined that it had never existed. He cried out, trying to make his mouth work and so shocked that he struggled to put thoughts together.

"Virus!" Jazz gasped. "Don't—virus! There's—"

_I am aware,_ Prowl said. _I see it._

Outside of themselves, the tower groaned again as the floor tilted. Ash blew up from the doorway and smoke began to cloud their intakes. Prowl stepped closer, holding Jazz flush against himself. The firewalled section of Jazz's cortex lay bare for him to read, but he didn't, too busy dealing with the virus to even consider it.

The virus turned and twisted on itself and then struck out, racing through their link and lancing Prowl's code. Jazz tried to yank it back but he had no control, and he felt the virus squirming between both of them, trying to sink deep into both of them.

Prowl caught it, pulling it deeper, and behind the virus, he deleted its anchor and let its fragmented code wisp away, to be swept up by the next defrag cycle.

Wounded, the virus attempted to recreate its anchor, lashing out in all directions for any code it could latch onto. Its purpose was obvious, to take over Prowl's higher functions and slave him to Jazz, reversing the marriage ceremony and setting them both at the command of whoever held Jazz's leash. No cheap worm, it reeked of high tower creation, lethal and more powerful than even a temple bot's wedding programs. Whoever had created it wanted Prowl badly.

"On any other ground," Prowl murmured, "you would have won."

The virus found that the code it had dived into was only a shallow shell of duplicate coding. Prowl quarantined it, briefly examined it like a glitch in a photo, isolated the root command and deleted it. As if it had been pierced, the virus simply stopped.

"That...will make interesting evidence," Prowl said.

He turned his attention to Jazz.

His peripheral had finally come back online, still leaning against him for support. Prowl looked over Jazz's cortex one more time to make sure all unauthorized communication ports were closed, then over what remained of their tower.

Whoever had attacked them—and Prowl had a strong guess—had incapacitated Jazz less than a breem before the front of their tower had exploded. The flames were still creeping up the staircase, but wind and smoke swept upwards, sucked in by the heat and forcing the flames higher. No doubt the lower wall had been destroyed in the initial blast.

Downstairs, something crashed in, followed by heavy steps that rushed into the main room. Intruders—whoever had attacked them, they weren't done.

"Prowl—" Jazz started.

"I know."

Hauling Jazz back to his pedes, Prowl steadied him until he'd regained his balance. Beneath them came loud cracking of crystal beneath pedes, electrical systems shorting out as fire ran up the circuits, followed by unfamiliar voices.

"Fan out! Make sure they're both offline."

"The explosion couldn't have missed them-"

"I don't want any surprises-"

Prowl made instant calculations. They had been attacked—100%. They were being actively hunted—100%. They had been drawn into the tower conflicts—90% and climbing. The lower floor was completely compromised—85% and climbing. The fire would soon engulf the entire tower—85% and climbing.

"Jazz-" he started.

"You gotta get outta here," Jazz said over him. "You can't fight—I'll cover for ya—"

"Negative," Prowl said. "Your safety is paramount."

"Prowler, you're still hurt—"

"A combat zone is no place for arguments," Prowl said. "Forgive me for this."

"Wha-" Jazz's vent hitched as his peripheral link was accessed, and he shook his helm wildly as he realized what was happening. "No no no, Prowl, don't—"

"Jazz," Prowl ordered him, "escape and make your way to the Enforcer station. Now."

"No, you rusted-"

Jazz cursed as his frame moved against his will, taking him toward the wash racks and opening up the evacuation access panels. Climbing easily through the cramped corridor and up onto the roof, he moved perhaps quicker than Prowl expected. Unlike cramped ventilation shafts, evacuation routes were meant to be climbed by mechs with far less experience than Jazz, and yet he shimmied up like a practiced professional.

Bullets and lasers peppered the trap door as he lifted it up, and he used the heavy slab as a shield. Through the billowing smoke, he counted the points of laser fire and came away with too many for Prowl to fight.

"Glorified calculator ain't no combat mech," Jazz growled as his hands moved against his will. "Thinks he can take on a whole heap of bad guys and get away..."

But Prowl didn't believe he could get away. Prowl was just buying Jazz time to escape. Prowl knew he wasn't any good in a fight, and yet he'd sent Jazz away.

And Jazz was obeying no matter how much he fought his programming. The peripheral coding, though weakened, demanded that he move. Prowl's order had left him no loopholes to wiggle through.

Another spray of bullets landed around him. Could they see him? Were there fliers? He shuddered. He hoped not. Hard to outrun fliers, but he would've been happy to see Airazor or any number of Enforcers right then. He was sure Prowl had called for help, but there was no way help would come in time. There was only Jazz, and he was already crossing the roof.

He spotted an acid rain drainpipe behind him and grabbed it, pulling himself out of the shaft and using the pipe to clamber down the wall. Flames roared all around him, and with a grimace, he leaped down the last several meters and rolled through the fire. His internal temperature soared as he came back up in a run, heading toward the far fence. He could hop it easily, hit the road rolling, circle the tower district as he abandoned Prowl...

"No." Jazz repeated it over and over as he pedes took him toward the fence. "No. I ain't doing this. I ain't leaving him."

His peripheral coding had him at the fence. He grabbed the steel bars, and he saw the black paint of his hands and the white paint of his arms. Through the smoke rolling over the grounds, the two colors blurred in his optics.

"Jazz has to escape," he muttered.

But Meister didn't.

A little white and black mech had escaped from the tower. A sleek black and silver nightmare roared back.


	26. Ten Percent Chance

Spinning around the corner of the tower, Jazz unveiled his sonic array at full volume. He barely saw the tower mechs before they were sent tumbling aft over helm, two small cassettes and a taller blue and gold femme that hadn't expected his attack. Electrical shorts sparked over their frames as Jazz pushed his audios to their utmost, his own frame pulsing in time to a song of his own making.

Gunning his engines, he raced toward the tower mechs, running over one cassette and clipping one with his fender, spinning the cassette around and down. As he sped forward, Jazz dodged laser fire from their carrier mech until finally the music was too much to stand. The femme covered her audios and stumbled backward, finally turning and running as oil bled through her fingers. Behind her, partly hidden by smoke, other mechs scattered, abandoning their attack.

But not all of them. Another mech appeared on the main staircase, framed by the smashed walls of the tower, the front of Jazz's home now completely caved in. Silhouetted against the fire, the mech raised a pistol and aimed at Jazz. The molten plasma bullets passed so close over Jazz's fender that it left a streak of burning heat behind it.

A sensible mech would have taken cover to return fire.

Jazz charged, accelerating so hard that his tires sprayed broken crystals and steel shavings behind him. The shooter raised his pistol slightly and aimed directly at Jazz's hood, intending to put a plasma bolt straight through his engines. At that speed, with no time to dodge, the small mech would be an easy target.

Without pausing, Jazz transformed, changing in midair with arms outspread to balance himself. The move startled the other mech, who missed his shot and found Jazz's pedes planted firmly in his hood and slamming him backwards, grinding him unconscious into the floor.

"Stuck the landing," Jazz grinned, and he took the pistol for himself.

Laser fire came from his left—Prowl's berth, Jazz thought. How alien everything looked with black smoke and red firelight. This had to be what smelters felt like. His tires had no protection from the heat and his filters were starting to clog from the smoke. Coughing, he shied away from the sudden billowing flames in the doorway of his own berth, crouching low from the waves of fire rolling along the ceiling. Almost impossible to see—even his own black armor looked red and gold in the firelight.

So did the mech on the staircase. He shot one of her doorwing panels and stepped over her as she toppled in an unbalanced heap.

Something crashed. Prowl's door had finally given way under the attack.

Movement and a sudden gleam from somewhere above him was his only warning, and he turned quickly, dodging the steel bullet slug that shot past him, exploding part of the floor up in a shower of ashes. He spotted a mech with a completely unfamiliar frame outlined in the doorway and fired.

Jazz's shot missed, and he risked bringing out part of his sonic array. In the instant he lifted his frame's concealing panels, a bullet grazed his shoulder and broke off one of his steel plates. His armor cracked, and a second shot punched through part of his waist, baring wiring that sparked and shorted out.

Jazz dropped to one knee, keening in the back of his throat. Pain sensors flared and overwhelmed him as he manually told all of them to shut off, numbing him to the damage. No doubt all the mercenary mechs attacking them had turned their sensor suites off before the fight even began. Jazz wasn't used to sticking around for a fight. The worst injury he'd ever suffered was Prowl tearing his cables, a cracked optic or a crumpled doorwing.

Wincing with the pain, he forced his arm up and fired blindly at the mech coming toward him. Another bullet tore through his hand and made him drop the gun.

It had all taken less than a few kliks. Jazz's sonic array had only half risen up before he forced it to its highest setting, yelling at his sonics screeched past his own helm and crashed into the other mech. As the mech fell, a last bullet grazed Jazz's neck, shorting systems out across his frame.

Jazz held the sound longer than he needed to, bombarding the mech with devastating sonics until the mech was completely still. Venting hard, Jazz let the music stop, but he stared at the mech for another moment before the heat and roar of fire made him move.

Jazz stepped over him and looked around the room he'd left left than half a breem before.

On the floor against the far wall, Prowl aimed his acid gun at Jazz, optics wide. A bit of energon trickled from the corner of Prowl's mouth and from the blown joint of his pede, crippled by laser fire, but somehow he was still operational.

"Meister?" Prowl vented, optics widening when he saw Jazz's wounds. "You...?"

"Ain't here to kill ya," Jazz said, hands up, his voice disguised. "Came to get you out."

"You could not have known," Prowl said, narrowing his sights at Jazz's helm. "You could not be here without knowing about the attack."

"Prowler, we ain't got time for-" Jazz started.

"I do not trust you!" Prowl coughed a fine energon mist. "I can't trust you!"

The tower groaned and bent. As the flames grew into all-consuming electrical fires, the tower began to lean and tilt. The windows shattered in a spray of glass and the lights finaly failed so that the fire threw wild shadows across them.

"There is a ninety percent chance this is a trick," Prowl said, "to make me lower my weapon."

Jazz stumbled as the floor buckled. Prowl hissed as his weight shifted onto his ruined pede, twisting it hard to one side, but his gun remained at the ready.

No more time.

Jazz deactivated his vocal distortion unit.

"I ain't leaving you behind, Prowler," he said. "Please?"

Prowl froze. And then his optics closed in painful realization.

Without a word, he retracted his gun. He kept his arm up, allowing Jazz to once again put Prowl's arm over his shoulder, and neither spoke as he was brought up on his pedes, the thunderous flames all but drowning Prowl's damaged systems shrieking.

There was no time to be gentle. Jazz dragged Prowl through the wreckage of their home, jumping down with him over the collapsed rubble of the stairs. Both of their frames gave small electrical shrieks or screeches as their systems shorted and sparked, and Jazz felt Prowl's hand clamp over the bullet wound in his waist, trying to stem the trickle of energon.

He led him all the way to the front gate, helping him to lean against the wall. Their small tower finally collapsed in a shower of embers and smoke, and Jazz turned to block Prowl from the worst of the blown ash and heat.

"I was gonna tell ya." Jazz coughed out smoke, holding Prowl as the glowing ashes settled around them. "Right then. I was getting up the courage..."

"Jazz..."

Jazz expected a stasis cuff to slap against his wrist. Instead he felt Prowl's hand, comforting and in control, come to rest on his helm.

"You must have..."

Both of them snapped upright as a new sound crept closer.

Enforcer sirens wailed at the edge of Jazz's hearing, coming toward them at a terrifying speed. Jazz met Prowl's look, and the same thought struck both of them. Not Jazz but Meister, thief, joyrider, attempted murderer. Arrest. Confinement in a tiny cell. His spark chamber removed and isolated-

"Stay-" Prowl started.

"I can't," Jazz said, stumbling back before Prowl could grab him. "I can't...Prowl, I can't-"

"They won't hurt you!" Prowl tried. He tried to take a step and sank to one knee, unable to keep standing. He looked at Jazz with wide optics, trying to reach through his master link and unable to grasp at Jazz's Meister designation. "Jazz, please!"

"I can't-," Jazz said, still backing away, loathe to turn and lose sight of his master. "I can't-"

And then the sirens and flashing lights of a whole cadre of Enforcers came around the corner at the end of the street. Jazz tried to make his pedes stay put, to tell his systems to calm down—but the thought of being captured, put in a cage, locked away as a motionless spark chamber without even a voice...

He turned and disappeared into the smoke. Prowl watched the empty space where he'd stood.

Prowl stared long after Enforcers surrounded him. They treated his wounds, began a search of the grounds and shouted questions—what had happened? who had attacked him? where was his peripheral?

Prowl had no answers.


	27. Secret Agent Bot

Self-repair functions could only do so much. Jazz's midsection began to knit. Fluid cables pinched shut as energon and coolant and oil rerouted through redundant systems, and electrical circuits cut voltage so he didn't risk setting himself on fire. But he was sublimating his pain centers to nothing, numbing his armor plating, and that left him cold and shivering as he drove.

He didn't know where he was going.

Home was burned down. Couldn't go to Wheeljack—they'd look for him there. He had a couple bolt holes he could hide out in—an abandoned factory, a leaking maintenance shaft two levels under pavement—but the routes out of the tower district were all blocked. Each time he came to the dark end of the road, he found half a dozen Enforcer units at each gated entrance, standing with their lights flashing at the end of their doorwings. A few nobles had come out of their towers, giving statements about what they'd heard and seen.

Jazz kept his headlights off and slowly rolled back in reverse, taking detours to smaller, less trafficked gates only to find them blocked as well.

The walls around the tower district were tall, but not so much that he couldn't climb over them. With a little speed under his wheels, he could have jumped the wall and the spikes on top, but several fliers were already in the air, sweeping the perimeter with bright search lights. If he tried running that way, he'd have a dozen Enforcers on his tail in a moment, and the rest of them half a klik after that.

He swerved around a corner, dodging a spotlight, and hid in the shadow cast by a tower, rolling with the darkness. As the flier left, Jazz transformed back into altmode and crouched low, watching all the lights flash overhead. He idled, his engine rumbling quietly, and he curled up against the wall beside him, making himself smaller.

They'd find him if he stayed there, but he couldn't go anywhere else. His self-repair had sealed some of the energon leaks, but those were temporary at best. He'd never numbed himself to such extreme pain before, and his frame writhed as if something were digging inside him. Maybe if he hid long enough, if he somehow lasted, then later he could visit Wheeljack—

A shrill burst of static erupted in his audios, snapping his helm sharply sideways. His vents skipped a cycle as the pain flared in his cortex, and with a shuddering keen, he buried his helm in his hands. Some pain couldn't be numbed.

_Jazz. Report._

Jazz closed his optics and stayed silent.

_Jazz. Are you functioning?_

Still he refused to answer.

_Negative..._ Metronome's voice sounded distant, as if he were answering a mech beside him in some far away room. _I have attempted to contact him four times, and now with a burst. He is either deactivated or incapacitated. I will send an agent to the Enforcer's station to make sure._

Silent, Jazz let the voice wash over him. Impossible to feel anything now. He felt like even his spark had gone numb. Metronome didn't talk like a creator hoping to save his creation. Metronome talked like a mech that needed to erase a problem. Listening to his assassination discussed like a bit of business, Jazz sat like an empty shell as his creator muttered to someone else. He couldn't hear the other mech, but he assumed it was a higher ranking tower noble.

_Unknown,_ Metronome said, answering an unheard question. _Jazz earlier indicated Prowl's infection, however. If our virus is detected, we will draw attention to ourselves._

Now Jazz froze. That could only mean one thing.

Chamber Harmonic would send more mechs to kill Prowl.

The connection cut off as Metronome gave up on him. With his pede joints shaking, his abdominal sections grinding as his bullet wound moved, Jazz braced himself against the wall and stood.

He didn't try to transform. Still colored black, he took a few small steps around the wall and looked up at Chamber Harmonic, a shimmering blue tower of glass and steel that sparkled amongst the most elite. He'd sneak in more easily as Meister than as Jazz. Maybe if he caused enough havoc in his tower, they'd be too busy with him to deal with Prowl.

In all of his previous run-ins with the Enforcers, he'd simply run. All his clever tricks, maneuvers—turning corners at top speed, tumbling off the edge of a road to cling to the underside—all of these would not serve him now. He had snuck past security before, but never with this amount of Enforcers on high alert, lights flashing, actively searching for him. Never with his tower wanting to kill him. All of his programming was screaming that it was time to run.

But as he kept to the dark streets between the smaller towers, balancing on privacy walls and the jumbled pipes and turbines behind the towers that kept everything running...he found that he didn't need to run. Would have been caught if he'd run. All of the Enforcers were so focused on the gates and outer fences that they didn't examine the tiny dark spaces too closely. They were so sure that Meister wanted to run that they didn't consider that Jazz wanted to stay.

They clearly hadn't interrogated Prowl. Or listened to him. Or spread anything he'd said about finding Jazz. If they had, then breaking into Chamber Harmonics wouldn't have been so damn easy.

All the tower exits were blocked by several drones and security bots, staring down the Enforcers who didn't have authority to go beyond the doors. From across the street, leaning against a shadowed wall with his arms crossed, Jazz considered how to enter.

He'd snuck into his own tower plenty of times, usually overenergized or trying to avoid a scolding. And he told himself that this wasn't any different. Just this time, he'd just be killed or arrested if he failed.

"Somehow," he mused to himself, "that ain't all that reassuring."

Chamber Harmonics was a sizable tower. The Enforcers couldn't watch all of it, and even the chamber mechs couldn't stand guard everywhere. Behind the main entrance, well away from the glittering lights and sweeping beams, lay the unsightly loading bays for bulk deliveries. A handful of mechs guarded the broad warehouse gates, but above them, the wall was crisscrossed by a dozen black pipes carrying acid rain safely away to the gutters.

A bit of chipped steel flew over the guards, clattering against the far pavement, and as the guards all turned to look, Jazz idled closer and stood at the corner, beneath a decorative balcony. And as an Enforcer flier hummed overhead, he shimmied up the pipes, disguising the small sounds he made under the flier's larger engine.

From there, he climbed. His only real danger lay in any leaks or pooled acid rain that might splash his hands or face, but the few breaks were easy to spot and avoid. And no mechs wanted a window covered with dark, rusted piping, so he didn't have to worry about anyone looking out and catching a glimpse of him. Even when the Enforcers flew circles around the tower, they always pointed their cameras to the street, never to the vague dark shapes against the wall.

Music played off to his left, but the notes were warped and distorted. This high up, the tower security permitted several balconies of increasingly opulent size. They began with windows which could actually open, and a few floors higher those windows became floor length and wide enough to allow several mechs to look out at once. At the highest levels, which Jazz had only ever been privileged to stand upon once, the balconies were simply open spaces, the apartment opening up to the air with crystal overhangs blocking any acid rain. Several of these balconies lined the top floors, leaving the pinnacle of Chamber Harmonic as broad stages for private, open air performances.

Maybe, if Jazz could shimmy around the corner somehow, climb onto one of those balconies, then he could simply-

He made the mistake of looking down. Instantly his hands locked on the pipes and refused to budge, and he pressed his helm against the wall. His optics shut tight. He'd thrown himself off of roads before, but he'd always had a ledge to grab onto. He'd never been so high that he could look down on fliers, that the mechs below looked like tiny servos on a chipboard.

"Maybe I really am defective" Jazz said, chuckling despite the chill in his spark chamber. "Cars ain't got no business trying to be jets."

He had to force a quick surface defrag to find and delete the memory of looking down. Only then did his hands begin to move again.

Which still left him with the small problem of how to get in. Climb all the way to the roof? Insane. Slide around the thin ledge of each floor and break glass? He'd slide right off, first step. Find a maintenance access panel? Hadn't seen one so far.

"Well," he vented, staring up at the stars and refusing to look down again. "I was gonna have to announce myself sometime anyways..."

He wrenched the thickest pipe to one side, breaking it and forcing it to bend outwards. A few drops of rain splashed his armor, but he smothered his cry as he wiped the plating on the wall quickly. Bits of metal ran down his arm, but the burn wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been. It hadn't rained for several shifts, and even this was diluted with carbon.

Once part of the pipe was free, Jazz could more easily wrench more and more of it out until he had a loud, stiff sort of rope to swing on. Hanging on tight, he crouched, then jumped as hard as he could. His weight pulled the rest of the pipe off of its rivets as he sailed out into the air, and then the pipe yanked on its anchors—steel connectors each a meter deep—and the sudden jerk slammed him back against the wall. His pedes came around the long curve of the building just as he lost his grip on the pipe, and he tumbled down—

—onto the overhangs of the nearest balcony. He flailed for a moment, sliding down the angled crystal, and found the final edge coming far too fast. He put his hands out in a panic, and as he sailed over the side, his fingers grabbed the edge and held tight. In one motion, he swung down onto the balcony, landed on his pedes and stood straight, optics wide.

Then he brushed himself off as if he'd meant to do that.

He wasn't alone. He backed against a decorative pillar as someone whistled in the center of the room. Jazz held his vent and peeked out, studying the circular space with a grand stairwell leading to a second floor that ringed half of the chamber. He guessed he was in a the private rooms of one of the highest ranking mechs, possibly Ritenuto or Cadenza. And then he heard something low and steady, a whisking sound, that made him put his hand over his wound and come around the corner with a fake smile.

"Yo, Ringer!" he said. "They still got you sweeping up the joint?"

"Jazz!" The bot, a gray and red model with a grill instead of a faceplate, leaned on his broom. "You know it. Mech, been ages since I seen you. We been missing you around the kitchen. Last we heard, you were hitched off to one of those candy makers."

Jazz sighed as if all he could imagine was the raucous laughter of the mechs in the kitchens, or the laughter of the femmes as he flirted. Some small part of him even missed it. But it wasn't home anymore, and it certainly wasn't Prowl.

"You heard right," Jazz said. "Marriage is a sad thing, mech—don't let no one tell you otherwise."

"S'why I'm glad ain't no one notices us apprentices," Ringer said, his face grill flashing in mirth. "But then why you all the way up here in Aria's chamber?"

"Well, the less anyone says about me in her chambers," Jazz said with a wink, "the better. In fact, I'd like to sneak outta here before her creator or my master unit finds out I was with her."

"Nothing 'bout you changes, huh?" Ringer chuckled and pointed to a small closet in the corner. "That's the servants' entrance. Go through there and then down the elevator."

"Thanks a ton, mech, I owe ya." Jazz slapped his back on the way out, jogging to the door and waving as he left.

As soon as he was in the elevator, he smashed the camera in the corner. Satisfied no one would be watching now, he pushed the button for Metronome's chamber and then pulled out the tight mesh grating above him. Tower elevators weren't pulled on wires like the cheap lifts in the rest of Praxus. This elevator ran on swift magnets, so there was nothing in his way as he scrambled up on top and replaced the mesh after himself.

Once he reached his creator's floor, he'd crawl through the maintenance ducts that ran over the ceilings. He'd just have to be quick—the elevator went so swiftly that if Jazz was half in, half out of a vent when it went by, he'd be half a bot without realizing it.

_Secret agent bot,_ Jazz hummed in his helm. _Danger's in his name, danger's in his frame..._

It'd make a nice tune, he thought, for a spy thriller vid. But the wound in him shifted like broken glass in a bag, and he started to appreciate Prowl's view that vids weren't very realistic at all. None of the secret agents he'd ever watched had keened during a fight.

On the way down, the elevator stopped. Jazz froze, then cursed. He'd been so tired that he'd been lazy. He should've gone into the maintenance shaft right then and there at Aria's chambers, but no, his bullet-riddled aft just had to enjoy a ride...and now three bots stood at the door, pistols drawn.

"He was definitely here," the bot said. "Check out the energon."

Jazz's optics widened. He hadn't realized he was bleeding again. He put his hands against his abdominal plating where the bullet had punched through him and felt slick energon on his fingers. Was it still bleeding? If any dripped onto the mech below—

"He must've gotten off before."

"Maybe."

The bot beneath him looked up.

The only light came from below, and that wasn't enough to pierce through the thick mesh. But to Jazz's horror, he saw a glistening pink droplet well over his fingers and slide down, growing and dangling by a thread. It was right over the bot's optics. Another moment and—

"There's energon up here," the bot said, swiping his hand along the mesh. "He's bleeding."

"Bet you a cube he went in Aria's ventilation."

"Call Tempo, tell him to flood the ventilation system."

Satisfied, the bot beneath Jazz walked out, missing the drop of energon that fell just behind him. As the doors closed again, Jazz vented out.

Had Ringer betrayed him? Maybe. Jazz had been obviously shot. That would've raised suspicion, and any apprentice would be eager for recognition. Then again, the tower had plenty of cameras. Maybe they just spotted his trail and followed after him.

Now that he was aware of the wound again, Jazz began to feel it. Blocking his pain receptors could only go so far, and the rest of his systems were feeling the strain of making up for his injuries.

He dropped down into the elevator again and continued the ride toward Metronome's floor. He started to reach up, then winced, holding his waist. No, he didn't feel like jumping back up there again. It felt like cords were pulling tight inside of him, keeping him bent.

"Guess I pushed about as far as I can push," he sighed. "Least it ain't far to go now."

Thirty floors. Twenty floors. Ten floors. Jazz extended his sonic array, powering up for a full blast the moment the doors opened. Six floors. Five.

_I'ma miss ya, Prowler._

_...J-zz...c-ll b-...pl-..._

Jazz closed his optics. Static came through his peripheral port. Prowl hadn't stopped trying to contact him, and despite Meister's different frequency, Prowl was making progress.

Jazz half smiled. Of course Prowl was making progress.

_You're one damn scary bot, you know that?_

_J-zz! Pl-...c-m b-ck...J-zz..._

The harsh consonants and hiss of static barely sounded like Prowl, but Jazz luxuriated in it for one more moment. No matter what, he'd hold that sound in his spark afterward.

_You were a great ride,_ Jazz said. _Shame it had to end._

And then the door opened, and he walked through.

Tbc...


	28. Exit Stage Right

Metronome stepped into a dark chamber. He pressed the light switch, but the soft click only brought a brief, dim flicker and then nothing. As the door behind him shut, cutting off the hall light, he vented and walked in.

"Maintenance," he said over his comm line. "Floor 327, chamber 5 requires electrical work. ...no, now. ...I can only see by the city lights, is that 'pressing' enough? ...if you aren't here in a breem—"

The connection must have cut off. Metronome growled and went to the balcony, leaning against the railing. Below him, the Enforcer sirens still whirled across the tower district, their search beams passing over the streets and across the towers. One flashed over his balcony and then veered off again.

And not too far, on the furthest ring of the smallest towers, a single blaze sent smoke up into the black sky. Metronome watched it for several kliks. Then turned away, content to wait in silence.

"Not even a eulogy? I'm hurt, bossmech."

Metronome snapped upright. His optics strained to see into the darkness of his chamber, but the glow from the city was too distant—he only caught the edges of a silhouette against the shadows.

"...Jazz?" he vented.

"Nah," Jazz said. "I don't think so. Not right now."

"Meister..." Metronome stepped back only to hit the balcony rail. He sent a ping to security but there was no reply. Gripping the balcony, he stalled for time. "You survived House Gourmant's attack?"

"Seriously?" Jazz said. "Putting your little fiasco off on Gourmant? Now you just embarrassing yourself."

"It was for the good of the tower," Metronome said. Bracing himself against the railing, he stood a little straight, snarling into the dark. "You brought it on yourself. Disobeying orders, stealing without permission. And maintaining a firewall...did you think we wouldn't access that medical bot's examination?"

"Now," Jazz continued as if Metronome hadn't said anything. "If you had left Prowl alone, I wouldn't be here. But I ain't 'bout to let you hurt him."

Metronome stared at him for a klik, and then he laughed. Low, sneering. "You little glitch. You fell in love with your master unit?"

"...ain't nothing but a glitch." Jazz tilted his helm. "That'd pro'lly make a good song, too, come to think of it."

Metronome felt a subroutine trying to come online, his hand tensing for what would have been the usual crack across Jazz's visor. He'd beaten most of that atonal slag out of his creation, but he'd never had to backhand Meister. Not that there should have been any difference, but Jazz was usually so docile, flippant but obedient. Meister...this show of defiance was unknown.

"You glitched—malfunctioning short circuit..." Metronome grasped for words and spotted a hint of motion in the darkness, felt Jazz coming closer. He spoke faster. "...you can't kill. You've never killed. You've never—"

"Killed four mechs this shift." Jazz shrugged. "Or three. Can't remember so good. Lost a lotta energon. But I think I got room for one more."

Metronome felt coolant wash through him, chilling his overheated core so much that steam wafted from his tanks. Why wasn't security responding? Metronome tried to signal the tower elders, colleagues, anyone, and no response.

Meister was coming closer, like the shadows creeping closer against the outside light.

Metronome vented deep. "I am your creator, you scramble-circuited—"

A burst of static roared in Jazz's helm, a blast of white noise that exploded behind his optics and blinded and deafened him in one go. Almost as strong as the burst in the tower, it snapped Jazz's helm back as if he'd been shot in the face, and he fell to all fours as he felt the last dregs of his energon churning in nausea. He couldn't hear Metronome anymore but he knew his creator was screaming, snarling, pouring every last bit of power through his dedicated port.

Coherent thought vanished. Jazz opened up his most familiar defense and pushed back as hard as he could.

The sonics that Jazz returned sent Metronome stumbling back against the railing, tilting over the side, holding on with one hand clamped on the railing so hard the steel dented under his fingertips. Sparks played over his surface as the sound waves played havoc with his signals, and as his servos began to fire uncontrollably...

...his finger joints all simultaneously opened, and Metronome tumbled backward into the empty air.

Halfway down Metronome started to scream. The barrage against Jazz cut off as Metronome's awareness fled down into his spark chamber, trying to find shelter, so that it was a limp frame that hit the pavement so hard that cracks radiated out from its body. Energon flooded out from broken tanks, mingling with oil and coolant, and the spark chamber lay shattered, already turning gray.

Half a breem passed. Jazz coughed, retched a mouthful of energon and oil. He grimaced—not good. His fluids were mixing inside somewhere. Hopefully just up near his intake, or else he wouldn't last long enough to get away.

He stood, staggering against the balcony, and looked over. Far, far below lay his creator, barely a glistening smear of steel amidst the flashing lights of Enforcers crowding around it.

A search beam shone over the wall and focused on him, illuminating the entire chambers in harsh white light. He winced and tried to shield his optics.

"Lie down on the ground," the flier demanded. "Do not attempt to escape."

"Airazor?" he chuckled. "Izzat you?"

"Wha—Jazz?" The femme's voice distorted at this altitude, but it was still clearly her. "What in the slag—no, just—lie down, dammit! Help is coming. First Aid's here—"

"Sorry, pretty lady." Jazz smiled, clapped his hands together as if ending a performance. "Time to exit stage right."

One step back and his black paint job meshed with the darkness so well that her sweeping spotlight couldn't find him. She hovered in place until a squad of Enforcers came up in search, only finding a few drops of energon on the floor.


	29. Prowling Through Data

In his office, Prowl spread numerous datapads across his desk. Each was dedicated to a cold case file, all of them cataloging one of Meister's heists or joyrides, and all of them projected numerous coordinates and road elevations. Prowl leaned forward in his chair and steepled his fingers, collecting all data in his cortex to sort through.

"You keep on like this, you're gonna crash again." Ratchet came in, but instead of disconnecting Prowl's access, he brought a cube of energon and cube full of pills and tablets. "And then how're you gonna find him?"

"I will not crash," Prowl said, not looking up. "Crashing results from too many variables at once."

"And this don't count?" Ratchet said, waving his hand across the row of screens.

"Not at all," Prowl said. "The only variable is Jazz."

Ratchet huffed. "He could be anywhere by now. Skipped town, maybe. He could be on a flight to the colonies for all you know."

"All city limit entry points have been alerted to Jazz's appearance...both of his appearances. All flight ports have received his specifications. And all of them are under constant surveillance."

"'Only one variable'," Ratchet muttered. He motioned at the cube of pills. "One synth-oil caplet, one cleanser pill and one filtration tablet every half an orn. And if I even think your cortex is overclocked, I'll shut everything down myself, got it?"

"Yes."

Prowl dutifully took the three meds and downed them in one go. Grimacing at the combined taste, he opened yet another file as it streamed in from Bluestreak. As he began downloading the key facts, he paused and looked up at Ratchet.

"Thank you," he said. "Your flexibility is appreciated."

"Pft." Ratchet turned to leave. "Like you'd get any rest worrying about the little slag. Just find him quick and bring him back in one piece. First Aid's guilt is making him impossible to deal with."

"I'd have more sympathy," Prowl muttered, "if he hadn't hidden Jazz's modifications in the first place."

"He noted everything by the book," Ratchet said, but he vented out in agreement. "I already ran him over the grill, but don't blame him for getting charmed by Jazz. Your peripheral puts on a hell of an innocent act."

"...I know." Prowl turned his attention back to the datapads, not hearing when Ratchet left.

Bluestreak poked in once to report that the mechs that Prowl and Jazz had deactivated or disabled had been identified as Chamber Harmonic mercenaries, then mentioned that House Gourmant had just suffered an explosion in one of their experimental kitchens in the warehouse district. His recordings of the scene held no images of Jazz, only Wheeljack frantically foaming the fires, and Prowl filed the report away for later.

"Prowl! Wh-tang!"

Prowl caught the datapad in midair, barely noticing Warpath's continuing speech tick. The mech wouldn't have tossed this at him without a good reason.

A highway camera caught an Enforcer charging after speeding mech. The camera had clicked too late and captured mostly the Enforcer, but at the very edge of the photo was a familiar set of rear wheels and a blurry paint job in black with faint lines of silver.

He took the camera's location and added it to his database of numbers. A moment later, a map of Praxus appeared in holographic detail above his desk. Leaning back in his seat to see the map fully, he pinged all of his datapads to shut off. He had what he needed.

"Plot all Meister thefts in the last decacycle."

He didn't have to speak the command out loud, but he felt that doing so marked each step of his search more clearly. With his cortex full of a thousand different numbers, the process helped safeguard him from crashing.

A handful red dots appeared on the map, scattered across the tower and temple districts.

"Plot all Meister traffic violations in the last decacycle."

Twice that amount of blue dots appeared, becoming streaks that highlighted a dozen different routes that turned the highways into racing courses.

"Alter the color of all criminal activity relating to tower thefts to yellow."

Most of the dots changed color, leaving a bare handful in red. The yellow point he disregarded—Jazz was no longer thieving from towers. Prowl briefly considered the rest—the petty theft of energon treats, the theft of several repair kits, and the illegal download of several data files from a game and vid store. Prowl tilted his helm, considering, then put his projection on pause.

_Bluestreak,_ he pinged. _I will require all statistics of low level offenses in the area of 4.89u and 7. Within the time frame of one twenty deca-cycles and the last three orn._

Creating a database required gathering information, then categorizing and labeling every number, deriving meaning from long lists of thousands of coordinate points. As Prowl pored over the files that Bluestreak brought back, he filtered out the minor assaults, glanced over vandalism, and instead settled on the remaining thefts. Two of them were inside jobs. The rest were smash and grabs...except for one. Recent, only a few shifts ago, a dozen cubes of medical grade energon lifted from a little corner pharmacy.

A knock at his door. Prowl looked up and found Airazor looking in.

"Lieutenant," she said, "it's almost shift. You need to get out of here before Ratchet rousts you out."

"Agreed." Prowl brought the holographic projection back online. "I need to plot one last set of coordinates."

She leaned against the door frame, watching him work. The projection of the city and all the various points on the map were no less impressive for how often she'd seen it.

"Highlight the theft at the Clear Gears pharmacy," Prowl said. "And layer on the points of entry for the highlighted street routes."

Three more points lit up. Now Prowl leaned forward, measuring distances against Jazz's estimated speeds.

"What is this?" Airazor asked, coming closer. "Is that all Jazz?"

"Affirmative," Prowl said. "At least I believe so to the tenth place. In the kliks he needs to reach these points...matching to the time stamps on the photos I have..."

The calculation was simple circular geometry. A circle appeared around the highway on-ramps, the pharmacy break-in and the thefts from energon treat shops. Prowl smiled.

"Cheap one-shift recharge bays?"

The computer found none.

"Abandoned structures?"

Two points lit up. Prowl examined the first and disregarded it. No roof meant no safety from acid rain. But the second one...a condemned plant-a factory now gutted by chemical fires but with several floors still intact.

"There." Prowl noted the address and stood. "Airazor, the shift is over, so you are not required to accompany me."

"You're going?" she asked. "Right now?"

"I have found him," Prowl said. "I need to move quickly before he decides to change location."

"That's a derelict plant," she said. "There could be any number of vagrants or gangs holed up inside. Or pockets of acid rain just waiting to eat through and splash someone. And you...well, no offense, Prowl, but..."

"But I am a glorified calculator," he said without heat. "Best suited to work behind a desk. I realize this. That is why I...while I cannot request it, I would...appreciate...your help."

Painfully awkward, Prowl waited for her answer.

She huffed and put her hand to her helm, rubbing a sore spot. "Why not? Lemme ping Blue and we'll all go run blindly into the unknown."

Prowl's calculations almost convinced him that her sarcasm meant she would decline, but a moment later, Bluestreak came down the hallway with a broad grin.

"We're gonna go get Jazz?" Blue asked, bouncing back on his heels. "'Cause I figured that's the only reason we'd still be doing anything at the end of shift so I'm glad I stayed around a couple more kliks and if we are going, we'd better go soon 'cause I think I heard Ratchet yelling at First Aid that he'd be up here soon."

Prowl smiled and took a deep vent. Having his two bots at his back made some of the tension release out of his doorwings.

"Yes," he said. "We're going to get Jazz."


	30. Lost and Found

The derelict stood at the edge of the industrial district, a burned out shell of rusted steel and twisted beams that nested among surrounding warehouses, black and jutting sharp edges against glittering power plants. The roof, scarred and streaked by acid rain, groaned as the wind coursed over it and sent showers of rust fluttering to the street.

Prowl's spark clenched to see it. This was no place for his peripheral.

Transforming up off the road, Prowl looked over the front and along the sidewalk.

_Airazor, anything?_

_Negative, sir._ Too high to be seen, she soared over the block in tight circles and zoomed in on the surroundings. _No bad guys, no Jazz. I don't think he knows we're here yet._

Prowl vented. _Bluestreak, a quick scan, please._

Bluestreak's doorwings hefted slightly. A long moment passed as his sensors soaked up the soundwaves, the echoes of the wind curving around walls and windows, howling past the ragged edges of torn steel.

_It's pretty empty inside,_ Bluestreak said, sending him a dimensional model of the building. _It's just some stairs and a couple floors._

"Hm." Prowl examined the model.

There was no way to surprise anyone inside-too wide open-and his pedes would make too much racket. But in the corner lay several walls that could have once been a dormitory for factory mechs, and a few of those still held doors.

_Guard the windows on the east wall,_ he ordered them. _I should not be long._

_Just yourself?_ Airazor paused. _Since we're officially off duty, sir, please forgive me for questioning the hell out of that decision right now._

Prowl frowned. _What's wrong with it?_

_One mech going alone into unknown territory against a mech with vastly superior armaments? What's right with that decision?_

_I understand,_ Prowl said. _But if I took either of you, Jazz would spook and run. Alone, I stand a chance of persuading him to surrender._

_And if he attacks you?_ Airazor asked.

_Two scenarios. One, my master protocols can command him to stand down._

_And when he transforms into Meister so that doesn't work?_

_Then you two will bring him down without killing him,_ Prowl said. _I have utmost faith in your precision. I trust no one else to wound him beyond Ratchet's ability._

_Oh, now you're trusting Ratchet's tender mercies, too,_ she said, sighing in resignation. _Okay, just be careful. I don't want to have to wake up that medibot when we cart you two in._

_Agreed._

The main doors were wide slabs of steel behind heavy gates, rusted shut and locked behind chains. Prowl's acid gun cut through the gates, and the lock melted off onto the ground. One of the doors broke a hinge and canted badly to one side, swinging in the wind. He waited a moment to see if the noise would send Jazz or any hidden mechs running. When Airazor and Bluestreak said nothing, he retracted his firearm.

Prowl gently pushed the door open enough to step through, ducking under the edge and coming up into the main building. The street lights barely cut the gloom. He switched his optics so that the room lit up in edges of green and white, a dark vision that barely showed him the vast space and the spiral staircase in the corner. Shielding his optics from the suddenly bright windows, he went as quietly as he could across the steel floor, wincing at each tap of his pedes. Every step sounded loud to his audios, and ancient steel shavings and dust flew up around him.

When he touched the staircase, it wobbled on loose screws. He winced, but there was no other way up, and besides, Jazz had to have used it regularly. If it could hold Jazz's weight, Prowl would be fine. He wasn't much heavier. Still, he held onto the railing and the center pole, going up with slow steps as the staircase shifted beneath him, first one way, then the other, sending his gyros spinning.

He passed what should have been the first floor, now a rusted rim along the wall that sagged under its own weight. The floors above were just as skeletal, most of them merely echoes of metal and wires, and he climbed higher, too aware that if the stairs broke, he would plunge down several stories onto jagged steel.

He shut his optics as he climbed. The input to his balance gyros was easier to manage without his visual sensors, and after a moment, he dialed down the sensors on his doorwings. All he felt was the stairs tilting, and he could easily shift his weight around to compensate.

_So this is what he meant,_ he thought, _about turning off his sensor suite when he races._

Prowl grimaced. It felt blinding...numb.

He vented when he could step off the staircase.

The only surviving floor stood in shambles, dotted by large holes eaten away by acid rain. Prowl could see where it had once been a dormitory, but the interior walls had fallen or slanted badly so that only a few rooms were left. Keenly aware of his steps echoing flatly, Prowl checked each door. He didn't even have to open them, merely glancing through torn steel and broken glass.

The last door was intact but hanging off its hinges. Holding his vent, Prowl peered through the wide gap.

A row of windows lined the wall, all of them covered in shredded screens. Beneath them stood a wire-mesh berth, sunken in the center. Prowl leaned to one side. And sitting on the berth, hunched with his helm in his hands, was his peripheral, still in the black coloring of Meister.

Prowl closed his optics in a wince. He'd known Jazz was wounded, but his peripheral had run hard and long on those injuries. His abdomen was blemished by a scar of splotchy steel, and the panel covering one of his sonic arrays was still snapped, exposing his wiring to the elements. Other parts of his frame were still broken open, revealing cords still frayed and bare. Each vent groaned through filters still charred by smoke and ash.

Prowl watched him for several kliks. Did Jazz know he was there? Prowl couldn't sense him at all. Whatever modifications Jazz had to his original systems, they blocked out Prowl from reaching his slaved systems.

He would only have one shot at this. Jazz could put him on the floor in a single blast. Should Prowl burst in and surprise him? Call in Airazor to distract Jazz?

Jazz gasped in air, shuddering as he vented, and then let out a long keen from deep inside his systems. His keen broke, turned into a wracked sob that made him curl up tighter. The deep wound in his abdomen crunched as if filled with broken glass. His doorwings pulled in tight as he tried to make himself smaller, and his sobs faded back into small keens broken up by tiny vents.

Prowl had opened the door and stepped in before he realized it.

"Jazz-"

"Go 'way, Prowler." Jazz shifted so that his back better faced Prowl. "Don' wanna fight ya."

_Immediate flight risk, zero percent,_ Prowl thought. _Likelihood of listening, sixty percent and climbing._

"I don't want to fight you either."

Prowl didn't come closer. The panels sealing Jazz's sonics were closed but unlatched. His peripheral could unleash a sonic barrage in a fraction of a klik, and Prowl didn't want to do anything to spook him. But what to say? In his office, he'd rehearsed lines to persuade Jazz to come back to him, but now in the same room with him, Prowl felt like everything he'd thought up sounded painfully...statistical.

"You found a very good hiding spot," Prowl said at last.

"Not good enough." Jazz coughed as his engine skipped. "You found me."

"I wanted to find you." Prowl tilted his helm. "Did you not want to be found?"

As soon as he said it, Prowl grimaced. What a stupid question. Jazz, however, didn't seem to notice how illogical it was, slumping further on the berth.

"Not really," Jazz said. "Figured you'd find me eventually. Didn't think it'd be this fast, though."

Jazz raised one hand, waving it slightly.

"Figured you'd run around searching for all Meister's thefts," he said. "That you'd arrest poor Wheeljack and..."

Jazz keened again, low and unbidden, and he grit his denta against it, forcing himself silent.

Prowl tilted his helm.

"I didn't arrest Wheeljack."

Finally. Prowl vented as that finally made Jazz look over his doorwing, his silver visor glinting in the faint light.

"You...you didn't?"

Prowl shook his head, allowing himself a small smile. "The probability that you had told him your hiding spots was nil. You would not jeopardize a friend like that. So there was no reason to bring your repairbot in for questioning, let alone arrest."

"But..." Jazz turned a little further, facing Prowl sideways. "He knows who I am."

"So do I," Prowl said. "Arresting him would have been a distraction. Nothing mattered beside finding you."

Jazz stared at him for several kliks, and Prowl could have kicked himself for never noticing how similar Jazz and Meister were. It wasn't just the paint job. Meister had the same habit of venting in after a question, of ducking his helm when he was nervous. Even the curve of his faceplate smoothed out as his optics widened. Everything about Meister screamed Jazz, if a mech knew where to look.

"You can't catch me," Jazz warned him. "I'll lay you flat and skedaddle faster'n your bots can grab me."

So Jazz knew about Airazor and Bluestreak. Prowl wondered at his peripheral's abilities.

"They're here for my protection," Prowl said. "They were afraid of what might happen in this part of town to a...glorified calculator."

The familiar defense of Prowl's honor rushed to Jazz's mouth before he caught himself, and Prowl rushed to take advantage of Jazz's silence.

"I don't want to catch you," Prowl said. "I want you to come back to me. Voluntarily."

"So I go walking meekly to the smelter?" Jazz snapped. "Or you gonna be nice about it and just rip out my spark box an'-"

Prowl's optics flashed as his hands clenched. Jazz knew his buttons and how to rile him up. And...his cortex flashed a calculation—eighty percent likelihood of fear and rising—Jazz would fluster and distract him and then race by him. Jazz was nothing if not clever and patient.

"The mech known as Jazz," Prowl started, reciting the report he'd recorded, "a.k.a. Meister, has been acknowledged as acting under coercion from the threat of de-activation from his creator, Metronome. Under the Penal Code 8925.235-1, Jazz's thefts will be sealed and, upon a vorn of good behavior monitored and sworn to by a valid Enforcer agent, deleted."

Prowl's voice echoed and died. There was a hint of a solar wind against the window, rippling static across the wires, and then nothing. Neither of them moved, and Prowl began to feel the first real twist of doubt. In his office, he'd imagined saying that and then Jazz falling into his arms, grateful, ecstatic, relieved.

Not this...silence.

"Prowler," Jazz started. "I...not that I didn't get all that, but...run all that by me again."

Prowl faced him, his brow knitting as he wondered if he'd said it wrong. "The mech known—"

"Not like some lying cop on the vid," Jazz cut him off. He looked up at him as if Prowl might lunge, his black frame tensed and ready to bolt. "Like you."

Prowl had the sudden feeling that he'd pushed Jazz past a hundred percent likelihood of running, and that it was a miracle the mech was still there.

"You're part of my systems," Prowl said, stumbling over the words as he failed to make Jazz's expression change. "You don't even have to go into the station. I could sign everything for you."

Jazz stared at him silently, and Prowl cycled coolant trying to push down his panic.

"And under the code 892...I mean, under the Peripheral Flight laws, I can vouch for you. That you did everything you could despite having a tower elder commanding you. That..."

Prowl frowned. "I am here not here to arrest you. I love you. But you will have to obey the traffic laws."

Ages later, Prowl would find out that Jazz not only understood everything he said, but that he could also recite the applicable Penal Code back to him verbatim. For now, it was enough that Jazz gave the smallest ghost of a smile, turning away so Prowl couldn't see.

"You, uh, you ain't got those stasis cuffs, right?" Jazz said.

Prowl shook his head. "Left them on my desk. I knew that, for whatever reason, I would not be able to use them."

"Good ta know, I guess."

Jazz patted the berth next to him. With slow, deliberate movements, Prowl came to sit beside him, careful not to touch.

"Don't suppose that report 'bout Meister includes him killing mechs at our tower?" Jazz asked. "Killing Metronome."

"Of course it does," Prowl said, startling him into looking up. "In self-defense. And in defense of a wounded Enforcer."

Jazz's lips parted slowly, and Prowl could imagine his optics widening to match.

"Oh, Primus, you didn't..." Jazz whispered. "My tower...they'll kill me."

"Chamber Harmonic provided the Enforcers with all camera footage necessary to prove Metronome's guilt," Prowl said. He grimaced. "To prove his sole guilt. They pinned it all on him. Probably didn't tell him that you were alive so that he would not be prepared for you."

"...yeah. That sounds like them." Jazz coughed and tried to hide the flecks of energon on his mouth. "Damn."

Prowl said nothing.

Jazz sensed his master's nervous tension, the way he practically vibrated as he held himself back from touching Jazz. He let the silence drag on for several kliks, comfortable in the awkward silence.

"I wanted to tell you," Jazz said. "'Bout me. Who I was. Just...too damn scared. Felt like I couldn't do anything."

Prowl tilted his helm. "Are you still afraid?"

Jazz paused. The peripheral port was still there in his cortex, and the moment he transformed back into Jazz, let the black coloring fade and let his frequencies come back to normal, then Prowl could control him once again. Could easily force him not to become Meister again. Jazz would lose...no, he would give up any chance of freedom if Prowl commanded him.

But he was Meister now, had been Meister for several shifts, and Prowl had still found him. Had woven a net of carbon steel around him and drawn it tight. Even if Jazz ran, Prowl would find him again. And again.

"We still official?" Jazz asked. "Don' s'pose House Gourmant wants a thief for a peripheral."

Prowl snorted. "You don't know Retentis. He used this to bargain up another trade agreement. He only sees me as a bargaining tool."

Strange how that didn't hurt as much as it once had. Prowl hadn't even been commanded to stay in another tower. With Chamber Harmonic's reputation damaged and Gourmant's reputation rising, Retentis no longer cared about his rebellious creation. To Prowl, his creator's silence was welcome.

"An' me?" Jazz asked, his voice very small. "What you see me as?"

"...I..." Prowl frowned and sat straight.

Ten percent chance—Jazz wanted to bargain. Thirty-nine percent chance—Jazz wanted to be released from peripheral service and never see Prowl again. Fifty-one percent and climbing, influenced by Prowl's illogical desire to have Jazz at his side—Jazz needed reassurance.

"You are part of me," Prowl said. "I want you to want to stay with me."

"Like a good little peripheral?" Jazz mumbled.

"No. Like Jazz. Or..." Prowl shook his helm with a rueful laugh. "Or as Meister. Although I admit I will need time to feel comfortable around that coloring. I keep getting nasty shocks."

Jazz put his arms around himself, holding himself tight, but he smiled despite the fear.

"Nah." And finally Jazz let himself lean over, resting against Prowl's shoulder, setting his helm on Prowl's shoulder. "Meister...that ain't really my designation."

Taking Jazz's movement as permission, Prowl put his arm around him and felt him relax, venting out as Jazz leaned more heavily against Prowl. The black doorwings drooped and Jazz vented deep and evenly as the black coloring faded as if washed away, leaving the familiar white coloring of his frame.

"Take me home," Jazz murmured. "Wherever that is now."

"An apartment near the station," Prowl said. "I'm afraid it only has one berth, but I think I could squeeze in another. If you want."

_If I want._ Jazz's weary smile grew.

"Ah..." Prowl paused, listening to something that Jazz couldn't hear. "Bluestreak has informed me that Ratchet and First Aid are down below. I believe they are insisting on treating you."

"Aw slag..."

"I want your injuries treated," Prowl said, rubbing Jazz's audios gently. "I will understand if you refuse, but there is a ninety-five percent chance you are in pain."

Jazz almost said no. Ratchet was a terror unto himself. But Jazz was tired, desperately in need of recharge and defragging, and his self-repair functions all screamed numbers in the red. A real medibot could take the pain away, and Jazz wanted to see First Aid and say sorry for surely getting him into trouble. And Prowl wanted him well again. And Prowl hadn't forced him.

"'kay. Just...gimme a breem," Jazz said. "Or two."

"As long as you need."

Prowl shifted slightly so that they fit a little closer, and he felt Jazz's systems warm up against his own. There were a dozen things he wanted to ask and a thousand things he wanted to offer. For now, he sat silently with Jazz, listening to his peripheral's spark slowly syncing up with his own again. And the emptiness he'd felt before, the silence where their link should have been, tentatively opened up again to allow Prowl the same control as before.

Prowl took it, reestablishing their complete link so that his data flowed to Jazz and Jazz's data flowed to him. The flow was sluggish at first, afraid of being grabbed and locked down to a constant set by Prowl's cortex. Instead there was no lock, no demand for more, and the peripheral link relaxed wide open.

Jazz's veneer of cocky confidence vanished so that Prowl held a lump of raw vulnerability in himself. Through the link, Prowl felt all the fear Jazz had pent up, all the strange atonal music and thievery and the festering resentment against Metronome. Of being caged up tight while he was Jazz and free as Meister...until Metronome yanked his leash again. And smaller things, little personal quirks Prowl hadn't noticed before. Jazz favored his left hand when writing. Jazz liked shaking his energon cubes to make them frothy. And...

"You still have the sheet music?" Prowl said softly. "Eventually that will have to be returned."

Jazz turned his helm, nuzzling at Prowl's neck cables. "Sure thing, bossmech. Eventually."


	31. Epilogue

On top of the steel rooftop, Jazz leaned against the raised ledge and watched the clouds blowing across the stars. This far out into the desert, the stars were a brilliant stream in the sky. The dark moon only made them moreso, and Jazz took the brief moment of quiet to search for human constellations.

"Orion..." he murmured. "Canis major...canis minor...oh, I think one's Andromeda..."

_As appropriate as that is for you, now is not the best time for star gazing._

Jazz grinned. _Prowler, I love you more'n my own spark, but I'm the secret agent deep in the enemy base._

_And I am just a glorified calculator?_

_Well, I wasn't gonna say nothing-_

The elevator across the roof hummed as someone came up. Jazz terminated his connection with Prowl with a kiss, then turned and raised his pistol. As the doors opened, Jazz fired.

Two mechs toppled over, greying out before they hit the ground, and both Frenzy and Rumble ran out from behind them, flanking either side of Jazz. And behind them, stepping out of the elevator, Soundwave stood straight, his own firearm raised.

"Autobot Jazz, located." Soundwave's hollow voice echoed across the roof. "Autobot will surrender or die."

"Hey, tall, dark and gruesome!" Jazz gave no hint that he noticed how much bigger Soundwave was, the golden optics focusing unerringly on Jazz despite the matte black finish that Jazz sported. "Didja get my present?"

"Present, unidentified," Soundwave said. "Clarify immediately."

"Sure, sure," Jazz said. "In three...two..."

To his credit, Soundwave jumped and flattened himself on the roof. Normally that would be suicide in front of Jazz, but not when he was counting down so dramatically. The explosion that destroyed the elevator sent Rumble and Frenzy aft over helm, and Jazz had to hold onto the ledge to keep standing.

Soundwave spared a glance over his shoulder. The elevator was destroyed, as was a good portion of the building behind it. Only coming up here had saved his own life. Flames and smoke billowed up at the sky, hellish black and red, and the incredible heat began to warp the steel of the walls and roof.

"And that's my cue to leave," Jazz said, clapping his hands as if concluding a performance. "Thank you, mechs and femmes, but that is the sound of the end of our show. Keep up the evil, though, and you can be sure of an encore performance."

"Autobot Jazz will halt!" Soundwave said as he fired.

The blast went over Jazz's shoulder, scorching his doorwing, as Jazz went backwards over the side of the roof. His laughter trailed behind as he raced away, plumes of sand and dust in his wake. A mile outside of the base, he was joined by the sound of a flier overhead and Bluestreak coming down from the plateau.

"How'd I do?" Bluestreak yelled as he dropped, rolling into his altmode as he came up beside Jazz. "I hit the ammo dump like you said."

"I couldn't of done better myself," Jazz said. "And that's no lie. You are quite the sharpshooter, my mech."

"I had plenty of time to set it up," Bluestreak said. "Airazor said no one even thought to come out this far and the one flier who came close was daydreaming and she took him out without anyone even noticing."

Jazz sent a quick ping to Airazor, who sent back an affirmative and then flew higher, keeping watch from a better altitude. They burned up the miles between them and the increasingly rocky terrain, heading through two human cities on the highway where Jazz kept to the speed limit.

It wasn't easy. Jazz longed to pass every other vehicle on the road. How come none of these humans ever noticed that no one was "driving" him? But no one ever paid attention to another car in the dark, and only when they came out of the city limits did he finally roar back to his usual speed.

They arrived back at the Ark, transforming to root mode and walking up into base. Airazor landed beside them, stretching and yawning as she jostled Jazz.

"Tell Prowl hi," she said. "I'm gonna go grab some tar. Blue, you coming?"

Bluestreak checked to see Jazz's nod. "Sure thing. And then a cube, too."

Jazz waved as they left, and he stopped by briefly at the medbay. The lights were dark, and only a dim glow came from the station in back. First Aid looked up from his tablet, smiling when he saw Jazz.

"Hey, my favorite trouble maker," First Aid said. "You need patching up?"

"Just a little," Jazz said, leaning against the station. "Soundwave nicked my doorwing. Stings like a mother."

"Looks like more than a nick." First Aid said, unwrapped a kevlar mesh and set it over the scorch mark, gently tamping it down. "Cut it kinda close there."

"Pft, didn't even need my sonics." Jazz gave the doorwing a little turn, just to make sure the kevlar didn't pull. "Bluestreak pulled the kill shot on the base. I just set up the shot for him."

"Right, right." First Aid gave Jazz a nudge toward the door. "Go on. Ratchet's been recharging light lately. If he wakes up and you're here again, he'll probably pull your doorwing and you'll be walking lopsided for a week."

"Heh, some things never change," Jazz said, winking at him as he left. "You're still one good mech."

"Trouble maker," First Aid said, setting back in his station to finish shift.

Down the hall, turn left, take the elevator up three flights and turn right, turn right again. He almost stopped at Wheeljack's lab but caught a puff of smoke pluming from under the door. Best to let his friend be for now, if the muffled spray of foam fire suppressants was anything to go by. Further into the Ark, Jazz passed several guards, both drones and mechs, and then passed Warpath at his desk.

"Gonna see the bossmech," Jazz said as he passed. "Might be awhile."

"Way ahead of you," Warpath said, tossing something at him. "Whoo!"

Jazz caught it one handed and then brought it up. He chuckled as he opened what, to a human, would have been an oversized book. To a mech, it fit just right in his hand.

"Beethoven," Jazz mused as he looked over the collected sheet music. "Guess bossmech's got a new request."

"A whole concerto?" Warpath asked, pretending innocence.

"You'll know if I'm in there longer'n an hour," Jazz said with a wicked grin.

Rather than ping or even press the button requesting access, Jazz knocked. A moment passed, and then Prowl responded in his cortex.

_What you see in human knocking is beyond me._

_Let's you know it's me, don't it?_ Jazz heard Prowl's office unlock, and then he walked in, listening to it lock behind him. _I still think you're taking too much of a chance, just letting me waltz in or out._

 _Must have learned it from you,_ Prowl said. _But I can tell if your cortex alters in any fashion. You are never a security risk._

Jazz glanced around the office. As usual, there was little to see. The tactical center of the Autobot forces, Prowl sat at a desk with multiple monitors open around him and several loose datapads spread out at his hands. His chair could recline slightly, and a simple set of lights in the ceiling kept the room a calm blue. A soft sound of piano played in the background.

"Moonlight Sonata," Jazz murmured. "Nice choice."

"You already know this one?" Prowl asked, sitting straight.

Jazz smiled and lay the book on the desk, coming around to sit on Prowl's lap.

"Prowler, bossmech, spark of my spark," and he punctuated each one with a kiss. "I know you ain't as interested in human culture as me, but damn, you been here how long and you just now heard of Beethoven?"

Prowl didn't grumble, leaning over to his monitor and pressing a button. "Ironhide, please inform Optimus and Percy that I won't be attending the meeting regarding the locking mechanism on the Ark's front entrance."

"Already tol'em," Ironhide said, and his grin was nigh audible. "I saw Jazz roll in. You debrief that bot thoroughly, young mech!"

Now Prowl grumbled, clicking off the connection.

Jazz chuckled, nuzzling his cables, and he nipped at the soft tire on Prowl's shoulder.

_Dunno, bossmech. Sounds like a good idea._

Prowl's hand slid down to Jazz's midsection, turning him in the chair so that Jazz was straddling him. The chair reclined so slightly as Jazz leaned up, luxuriating in the feel of his master in his peripheral link, his master's hands on his pelvis, his master's mouth on his. As Jazz came up to vent, he couldn't help the words coming to his lips. Beethoven could wait. Right now, he had a whole concert to deliver, one a millenia in the making.

"Long highway out from miles away, your signal's calling me home. Spun out hard but came back sound, your signal's called me home."

End

* * *

_Coda:_

Long highway out from miles away  
your signal's calling me home  
ain't got a direction I'm heading to  
your signal's calling me home  
and I know I'll never find rest again  
'cause your signal's calling me back home

Never meant to make your optics dim  
only wanna find my way back in  
but no berth, no road'll ever feel right  
your signal's calling me home

wandering across the long black roads  
and I don't always know where I am  
trying to get lost, but I know where you are  
'cause your signal's calling me home

Long highway out from miles away  
your signal's calling me home  
Spun out hard but came back sound  
your signal's called me home


End file.
